


The Wrath of Sabellian

by yulon



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Black Dragonflight, Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 42
Words: 536,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yulon/pseuds/yulon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sabellian, the elder son of Deathwing left abandoned with the rest of his brood in the unforgiving Blade's Edge Mountains, and Wrathion, who thinks himself to be the last Black dragon left, learn of each other's continued existences worlds away, resulting in a violent struggle with consequences that are left unchecked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction is based out of my writing blog [baron-sablemane.tumblr.com]!

[[ Before we start -- please be aware this is _not_ a Wranduin fiction. Wranduin is certainly included, but will never be the focal point of this story. Thank you for understanding! ]]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Sabellian lay himself flat against the dry, dusty ground of Blade’s Edge Mountains, stretched out his scaled legs, and yawned loudly.

It was quiet as he closed his eyes, save for the faint whistling of wind through the jutting rocks in the canyon. The skewered corpses of the black dragons, his own brethren, that Gruul had impaled on those spiked rocks had long since been removed after the gronn’s defeat, cremated in a ritual burning by their living kin under the guidance of Sabellian himself. It had been a somber task – some had been his own children – but it was a relief to set their mangled bodies to rest, and a relief to not be forced to see them hanging and rotting any longer.

He let out a content, full sigh. Since the death of Gruul and the removal of the corpses, Blade’s Edge Mountains had felt somewhat home-like to the scattered remnants of the black dragonflight that remained on the broken planet of Draenor. The lack of activity in the area - and in the entirety of Outland, which seemed to be a place forgotten by the masses in Azeroth - was also a pleasant rest from the nonstop action Sabellian had dealt with for the passed centuries; he’d hardly felt this relaxed since he was a hatchling.

The black dragon rather enjoyed it.

He opened his eyes as he heard a gentle whoosh over his head, and looked up only to see a translucent blue nether drake pass by, leaving streams of spiraling energy in its wake. A black drake followed suit, but not before seeing Sabellian and giving a respectful nod.

The black dragon shook his head, harrumphed quietly, and settled down again. The nether dragons were a … conundrum. They were born by black dragons, but warped into what they were now: half energy, half wyrm. They hardly belonged amongst the black dragonflight, and yet when Neltharaku, the leader of the Netherwing, had approached Sabellian with terms of a wary truce – one that was merely for defensive purposes against any vicious activity against either flight, such as demons or the orcs that enslaved some of Neltharaku’s race - Sabellian had accepted.

No, they hardly belonged, and yet they were allowed in the Blade Edge’s territory. The nether drakes temperaments seemed to vary from hostile to benevolent, and yet they seemed, in Sabellian’s eyes, too… kind, ultimately, to “fit in” amongst the black dragons.

Scoffing, he stretched his wings and looked around again at his desolate pseudo-home. At times, he yearned to return to Azeroth… but quickly thought better of it, for multiple reasons.

For one, he had received news of his father’s return. He had listened calmly to the report, and had, as any good son would have, awaited orders.

But none had come. Sabellian had been his father’s lieutenant beforehand, had helped personally usher in orcs from Ner’zhul’s Horde. He had done all his father had asked loyally…

And yet he had apparently been forgotten in Outland.

At first, he’d be vaguely insulted.

But he had quickly gotten over it.

His father ran rampant, intent on destroying Azeroth at the orders of his chaotic masters, the Old Gods…

Whose whispers which Sabellian no longer heard.

It had been unnerving in the beginning to hear the quiet in his mind when he had settled in Outland. The thick mass of darkness that had clotted the back of his brain, indeed, all of the black dragon’s brains, had been with him since the egg; it had been a constant parasitic companion, swaying him towards chaos and violence and malice, whispering and hissing thoughts of death and destruction, had make his claws twitch, his eyes become alight at the vision of blood.

But when he had come to Outland, the darkness had, like a sludge, slid from his head. Sabellian had never felt more clear-headed, more alert. He still loved a good fight, a snarling battle; he still loved the art of manipulation and power. But no longer did whispers probe him to do something he might have not beforehand; no longer did he wish to kill simply for the sake of killing, or harm for the sake of harming.

It felt… nice.

And so instead of making the whole to-do of uplifting his small regiment of black dragons from the Mountains through the Dark Portal to rejoin his crazed father, Sabellian had simply stayed for his own benefit, and indeed, all their benefit…

And when Deathwing was destroyed, who better to lead the Black Dragonflight but Sabellian, Deathwing’s own son?

No - staying in Outland had been no hard choice at all.

Perhaps, in time, he might return to Azeroth to rule his flight. But for now -

A screech of pain ripped through the quiet air. Sabellian’s head whipped up.

That was a dragon’s scream.

He leaped to his feet with a snarl. The far-off screeches continued furiously; a roar or two of battle joined it. There was a cry of surprise – one that did belong to anything draconic – and the snarls stopped.

“What is going on over there?!” Sabellian demanded, lifting off and heading towards the previous commotion.

The two drakes, nether and black, he had seen flying overhead were cornering something against the rock face. The eldest black drake’s right leg bled profusely from a thick gash. Two other black drakes, younger, had gathered at the noise as well, but hung back when Sabellian arrived.

“This mortal ambushed us, father,” the drake, who was named Talsian, growled. Suraku, the nether drake, nodded in agreement. “Ambushed me, more like.”

Sabellian focused. His limbs shortened and warped comfortably until he stood in his mortal form, a human clothed in brilliant red and orange robes with two snarling plate snake heads whose jaws held glowing fire on his shoulders.

He liked dealing mortals when he was in the guise of a mortal. They seemed to… respond better.

“Move aside,” Baron Sablemane ordered, and the two drakes parted. A blood elf stood before him, garbed in dark leather gear. A black mask covered the lower half of his face, and a shattered red gem was held against his forehead by a thin metal band. When he turned his pale face up to Sablemane, the dragon noted a ripening bruise on he elf’s right eye and the blood dripping from a corner of his mouth; the drakes had not been kind to him. Good.

Sablemane crossed his arms and frowned, raising a thin brow down at the mortal before him.

“You tried to kill my son here,” he said, then nodded his head to the black drake who now sat off to the side, tending to his gash.

The blood elf said nothing and continued to stare with narrowed eyes; Sablemane could practically see him thinking behind the fel-green sheen.

“… Unprovoked, I might add,” the dragon included when the blood elf continued his silence.

Now it was becoming annoying. Sablemane scowled. Of all the blood elves, he had to have the only one that didn’t like to hear himself speak. His silence was also an odd characteristic for mortal adventurers that usually traversed through the mountains; they usually babbled on and on about this and that, such as asking him repeatedly if they could do anything for him for gear or money. It had become obnoxious, but he had become used to it.

This mortal was much different. He would have welcomed this fresh breath of air if the blood elf wasn’t studying him like he was a puzzle to be worked.

“Suraku, tell me where he - ”

The wind shifted. The elf’s scent breezed passed him. Sablemane paused.

There was another smell beneath the mortal’s normal scent. Smoky, ashy.

He would know that scent anywhere. It clung to him, his children, and especially those in the flight that were gifted with magical ability -

Draconic magic. Black draconic magic.

He snapped his head back to the elf, nostrils flaring.

This game had certainly changed.

The blood elf was clearly from Azeroth – his scent was not yet coated over with the stench of nether energies from Outland. He may as well have been fresh from the Dark Portal.

And yet the black dragonflight was – supposedly – extinct on Sablemane’s home planet. He ground his teeth. But no, that was clearly not the case anymore – the draconic magic smell was unmistakable.

Sablemane made a motion with his hands, and Talsian shoved the mortal to his knees.

“Alright, blood elf,” Sablemane grumbled, “who are you? Who sent you here?”

Here the elf’s eyes sparked with attention. Sablemane allowed himself a small, grim smile - good. At least something had caught his ear.

“I serve his Majesty, the last… of his kind,” the blood elf said, giving a cautious look back at the black drake and then to Sablemane.

“Do you?” Sablemane said. “The last of his kind, hm?” He smiled toothily, but with only a fraction of humor. “I suppose my son must have come as quite a shock to you… like I’m very sure I am, as well.”

The blood elf set his mouth in a hard line and glared. What a stubborn little thing.

“Did this ‘last of his kind’ send you here?” Sablemane probed. “I have heard that none of my kin were left on Azeroth thanks to my father’s great madness. My reports were obviously wrong.” He scratched at his shortly cropped goatee and thought for a moment as the blood elf shifted uncomfortably on his knees. “Attempting to kill my drake is an intriguing way of a family greeting from him, wouldn’t you say, blood elf?”

“The elimination of those corrupted was – is – at the utmost importance!” The elf snapped. “Your kind are nothing more than vicious beasts slaved to your insanity!”

“What a lovely speech.” Sablemane chuckled. “And yet this dragon on Azeroth seems to have forgotten he’s a slave to insanity himself, hm?”

“His Majesty is a pure black dragon,” said the blood elf proudly.

Sablemane narrowed his eyes. “Pure. In what way?”

“He is not subject to same insanity the rest of your kin is subject to. He answers to no one but himself.”

Ah, yes, the blood elf’s pride in his master was getting him to brag. What an excellent way to get information.

And interesting information, too. An uncorrupted black dragon? Seemingly impossible.

However…

Sablemane himself no longer heard the whispers of the Old Gods. It was plausible for another black dragon not to. But one on Azeroth, the home of his previous dark masters? It stretched belief.

But if it was true – if this dragon was free of the Old God taint – how did he do it?

Could Sablemane do it? Could he somehow be free and return to his true home?

“And how exactly did he become free?”

The blood elf lapsed back into silence again. A good servant.

Sablemane knelt down to the elf’s level. His amused smile was gone now.

“He eliminated the other corrupted, didn’t he?” He said, a vague growl at the pit of his throat. The blood elf nodded, slowly. “And that is why you were planning to kill my son when you saw him.”

The elf didn’t react now.

“Do you know how many of my children Gruul killed, mortal?” He pointed out towards the jagged rocks of Blade’s Edge Mountain that surrounded them. “Dozens. Their bodies rotted alone amongst the canyon and I could do nothing.” He leaned in closer. “I will not have some dragon an entire world away from us to destroy any of my kin here, either. But I will find out his secret. And perhaps I will pay him a visit.”

“The Black Prince will continue coming after you until you’re dead,” the blood elf said, flatly. “You cannot hide, just as the others could not. He will find you.”

Sablemane laughed humorlessly. “’Prince?’ Then I must be a King.” He shook his head. Ah, this dragon, whoever he was, was riding a very high horse. “But I pose a question to you, friend – how will he come after us if he doesn’t know we’re here?”

The blood elf saw the implication immediately, perhaps in the maliciousness in Sablemane’s tone or the smile on his face.

A gleam of silver appeared swiftly in the elf’s hand and he surged forward with such agility Sablemane immediately knew why the Black Prince had sent this particular individual.

But Sablemane was much faster.

With a swipe of his hand he snatched the elf’s wrist that held the dagger and, before the mortal could pull away, the dragon gave a quick twist and felt the bones, so fragile, break like kindle underneath his hand. The blood elf screamed. He writhed backwards against the pain, yet Sablemane kept him in place, gripping his broken wrist tightly.

Calmly, Sablemane plucked the dagger from the elf’s hand and studied its tip as the assassin continued to struggle.

“That was a fair attempt.” He looked up. “Talsian, lock him away in the prey cave, if you will.”

As the drake came forward and clenched the mortal viciously by the shoulder, Sablemane leveled the elf with a stare. “Thank you for your … enlightening visit.”

The drake lifted off, sweeping down towards the canyon and disappearing. The cave was usually a meat locker of sorts to store food; surely the elf would find the dead flesh good company.

Sablemane straightened and pocketed the dagger in his illustrious robes.

“What now, my lord?” The youngest of the two drakes, Ryxia, still present asked.

“We investigate this ‘Prince,’” Sablemane murmured. “We research what he’s playing at.” He shook his head. “To have killed the rest of my flight - ” the dragon scoffed. “And for what? To call himself the last of his kind? Hah.”

“Do you believe what the elf said?” The other drake asked. “He’s free of the Old Gods?”

The smile fell from Sablemane’s face. He shook his head thoughtfully. “No. It’s impossible. Whoever this dragon is, he is powerful, and is hoping to the most powerful be eliminating others like him. Clearly.”

He did not miss the disappointment flash in the eyes of his youngest drake. Yes, they all yearned for home… but they could never go when the Old Gods waited for them.

“I’ll go!” Ryxia piped up, jumping to all fours from her sitting position. “Please, allow me the honor! I will find out about this traitor!”

“No. We’ll send two nether dragons.”

“But -”

“If this ‘Black Prince’ is truly as guile as to have hunted down the hidden dragons of our flight in Azeroth, what makes you believe he will not find the ones looking for him?”

Ryxia fell quiet and did not argue further.

“I will volunteer,” Suraku said. “I will find another to go with me.”

Sablemane nodded, glad the drake had taken the bait. Better a nether dragon to go that was hardly apart of his family than a true blood relation.

“Good. Leave at once. Clearly this relative of mine is curious in scouting Outland - ” he flicked his eyes to where the elf had been carried off - “but if he knew we were here, he would have sent more than just a reconnaissance spy. Let us not give him the chance to find out our little secret.”

He snapped his fingers. There was a snarl and a strange ticking metallic sound, and a robotic whelpling appeared in a flurry of smoke to Sablemane’s side. It was a clever little invention, commissioned from the gnomes that had once inhabited Toshley’s Station, that allowed long-distance communication through a similar, twin robotic whelp that Sablemane had stored in his private chambers.

“Take this, and speak through it with the information you gather along the way of the Black Prince. I will hear.”

Suraku took it carefully in his claws.

“What are you waiting for? Go! Now! Get all the information you can find!”

The drake lifted off and swept over their heads, bathing them in inert nether energy. Sablemane watched him go.

It seemed the lull of activity had finally broken… but perhaps for the better.

Baron Sablemane grinned sharply.


	2. pt. 2

Sablemane had not heard from the nether drakes for three weeks, but when his robotic whelping crackled to life and opened its maw to deliver their first report, he could not have been more relieved that they finally had something, or more amused.

“A whelp? He is a whelp?” Sablemane laughed thunderously. “Our murderous little relative is just a child?!”

His laugh echoed through his empty cave. The automaton flapped noisily in front of him.

“He was able to kill a full grown red dragon.”

Sablemane’s laugh died instantaneously.

“That’s impossible. And absurd. What stupid rumors are you listening to?”

There was a pause, filled by the empty static coming from the whelp’s maw.

“The information we’ve managed to glean from the subject is very trustworthy,” came Suraku’s voice again, finally. “It has been horrendously difficult to find any sort of tidbit on the Black Prince – it’s as if he’s made of smoke! - but this is a fact we’re sure of.”

Sablemane shook his head. “He cannot be a whelp, then. A whelp cannot kill a grown dragon. He’d be crushed beneath a paw.”

“From our reports, he hatched roughly two years ago.”

The dragon rubbed at his eyes, exasperated. “And you’re telling me a hatchling killed an adult dragon. Is that what you’re saying? That, somehow, a hatchling found the last of my kind on Azeroth and killed them? That a hatchling has employed mortal assassins like the one that was trying to kill my son to do his bidding?”

Another pause.

“… Yes.”

“Grah!” Sablemane clenched his fists, and a plume of smoke shot unbidden from his mouth in his outburst. “That is completely absurd. There must be some mistake. Find out what mistake that is.”

“… Yes, Sabellian.”

Sablemane took a deep breath to soothe his annoyance. At least they had found something about this mysterious dragon, regardless if they were false rumors; it was a start. “Have you anything else to report, then?”

“We did find his name. He calls himself Wrathion.”

“Mm.” At least it was less ridiculous than ‘the Black Prince.’ Sablemane rolled his eyes just thinking about it. Perhaps this ‘Wrathion’ was just a whelp to think prancing about with that title was a fine idea.

“He is also the direct son of Deathwing, my lord.”

“A direct son?”

“Yes. We are unsure of the mother.”

Sablemane thought quietly for a moment. It was their first report; perhaps, like the nether drake’s first rattled off facts, this may be false as well. But if not -

The dragon smiled grimly and shook his head. “A brother, then.” He snorted. “I always seem to have the worst siblings.” Briefly he recalled the twisted experiments of Nefarian and the power-hungry plots of Onyxia. Stupid, foolish wyrms. To have been resurrected and died again at the hands of mortals again – how had they not seen that coming? And how close had Sabellian himself had come to sharing the same fate?

“Is that it, then?”

“Yes, sir. We are headed to Pandaria now - “

“Pandaria? What on Azeroth for?”

“We believe he’s there.”

“Interesting.” Sablemane sighed loudly. “Very well. Continue your reconnaissance. I will await your next report earnestly and will hope I will not have to wait as long as for this one.”

He shut the whelp’s maw and severed the connection.

“An intriguing place to hide, little brother,” he murmured, smoothing back his goatee with his thumb. “So hide while you can.”

—-

“I cannot believe this. This is ridiculous.”

Two weeks had passed, much too slow for Sabellian’s liking. The nether drakes had made it to Pandaria and now traversed the continent in both their dragon and mortal bodies, cloaking themselves with heavy garments to hide their ethereal appearances that clung to them even in their human forms; they had quickly learned stealth when discovering that Pandaria was crawling with Wrathion’s agents, garbed in the same gear as the blood elf spy had been in Blade’s Edge Mountains, whose lingering eyes watched them quietly from the shadows.

“All of the rumors from the previous reports are true. Questioning the adventurers here has not been easy with Wrathion’s agents seeming to appear from every nook and cranny to watch us, but we do have confirmation.”

“Even about the fact he’s a whelp?”

“Indeed, even that. We overheard a night elf laughing about it with her companions. Apparently she had seen it herself when in his company.”

Sabellian tore into the hellboar carcass in his paws and considered. “He’s befriending more mortals than just his hired assassins, then, if this night elf was with him.”

Another yes. “The most powerful champions are flocking to him. He’s offering… rewards.”

Sabellian rolled his eyes. “I will never understand mortals’ fascination with silly baubles.” He wiped a smear of blood from his maw. “And I do not understand why these champions trust him. Surely they’re aware he’s a black dragon, yes?”

“… Yes, they are aware.” A pause. “It seems the rumor about his… lack of Old God taint is true as well.”

The dragon ground his teeth, the bones of the hellboar crushing to powder in his mouth. “Explain to me how and I will believe you.”

“Something about experimentation and the Red Dragonflight. We’ve been trying to ask, but – no one really seems to know beyond that.”

“The Red Dragonflight experimenting?” He let out a bark of a laugh. “Humorous. It seems my late brother Nefarian was not the only one interested in such things.” Sabellian tapped his claws on the hard ground of the cave. “But to remove corruption – hm. It may be… plausible. And if these champions trust him for it… mm.” Sabellian pushed the remaining scraps of the carcass away. “Or this Wrathion is simply very good at hiding his taint.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “If he is a whelp - ” he snorted - “and he was able to kill grown dragons – we must consider how. If the Red Dragonflight did dabble in experimentation, we may conclude it made him more powerful. Nefarian was always complaining about unwanted side effects in his own creations.”

“I wish I could confirm your hypothesis, Sabellian, but we have no other information on the matter. What you are explaining makes the most sense, but… we can’t conclude it with facts.”

“Of course you can’t.” Sabellian got to his feet and shook out his wings. “An uncorrupted son of Deathwing… he is more my relative than the rest of my dead kin in this respect.”

“Suraku, I want you two to get closer. More information. I am pleased you’ve confirmed what I thought was impossible, but I need more. Do you know where he hides?”

“We have some idea.”

“Go there. I want you to see this murderous little whelp with your own eyes. No, do not complain about his guards, I don’t care. You’re going to do this. If the Black Prince killed the rest of our kind, I want to find out his true intention for it: power as the last, or humane euthanization?”

“Of course.”

“Report back immediately when you do. Use whatever methods you can to get this information for me, Suraku… perhaps the best option would be to capture him. I don’t think you’ll be getting any better information otherwise. Please do not fail me; I’m loath to wait longer for the answer to my question if I have to send more nether drakes to take your place.” Smoke curled from his nostrils in a calm show of anger. “If this pompous ‘last of his kind’ finds us and does plan to kill us - then perhaps we will kill him first.”

The whelp went silent. And Sabellian waited.

—-

Wrathion leaned back into his seat and sighed contently.

It was quickly becoming twilight; the mists of the Veiled Stair muted out the gentle purples and blues of the dying sunlight of the sky. The last of his champions had left for the day with their assignments, and the Tavern quieted save for the clanging of pots and pans as Tong prepared dinner for his permanent resident and his guards.

The dragon took a sip of the warm green tea in his hands and exhaled loudly. Today had been especially tiring; a Worgen had come whining, proclaiming that Sigils of Wisdom seemed non-existent, and refused to leave until the Black Prince had convinced her that, yes, they existed, and that she just wasn’t looking hard enough. A troll had gotten into a scuffle with Left, saying that she’d looked at him funny. Even an undead horse for sale at Madame Goya’s had gotten loose and had terrorized the travelers who had just gotten up the Path until Wrathion had gotten annoyed with their screaming and had his agents capture the flaming beast and drag it back to the Auction House.

It was a relief to finally relax by himself – with the exception of Left and Right behind him. Wrathion glanced up to look out of the circular portal that led outside. He had been in here all day.

“When is dinner, Tong?” He called out curiously, swirling the tea in his hand and turning his attention to it with sudden boredom, watching the water slosh around as he leaned his head onto his free hand.

“Oh… maybe a half hour,” Tong yelled back, straining to be overheard amongst the sizzles and pops of cooking food and the crash of pots as he worked.

Wrathion smiled brightly. “Good. I have time for a walk.” He stood up, abandoning his drink, and gestured to Left and Right with his head. “You two stay here. I’d like to be alone for a moment.”

Left gave a noncommittal grunt and Right simply nodded. He often went off during this time of day to muse by his lonesome, grateful for the silence of the mists compared to the clamor of the entire day; they were used to staying behind during it, by now.

“Do let Tong know I’ll be back momentarily, would you?”

Another nod from Right, and Wrathion left the Tavern, heading towards Mason’s Folly, his favorite spot on the mountain. The view was lovely. It let him … think.

Annoyed with the stairs up towards the peak, he transformed into a whelp and flew the rest of the way, alighting down on the marbled balcony at the top and reverting back swiftly. The yawning landscape of the Jade Forest below greeted him, and he smiled to himself as he leaned on the bannister to look down at the expanse.

It was beautiful. Awe-inspiring. If he focused hard enough, he could nearly feel the very earth beneath him, feel its energy and life, feel the instinctual need to protect it.

He stood that way for a while, simply finding peace among the earth. His eyes had begun to droop when he saw something at the corner of his eye, dark and vague, standing still among the rocks.

Oh, good. Entertainment.

Wrathion showed no sign that he had seen. Instead he focused on trying to find the figure’s scent -

There it was. It was oddly muted as if the figure was behind a shield, but he could still pick up the lightning-like scent of nether energies.

And dragon.

Wrathion smiled, but did not look in the figure’s direction.

Oh, things had gotten rather interesting.

He looked down at his hands and flexed them casually.

It was no red dragon, that much he was certain. Unfortunate. He would have enjoyed taking out another of their attackers as he had beforehand.

“I would advise you to better yourself at hiding,” Wrathion called out then, his smile slowly upturning into a vicious smirk. “Or hurry up and lunge at me, if not - ”

The figure hurled itself forward from the shadows. In that slim moment Wrathion turned and unsheathed the hidden dagger at his belt, saw his ambusher head on, a cloaked humanoid with a face like ice, transparent, eyes ablaze with nether, his mouth in a snarl, hands outstretched in mid-transformation as they twisted into blue, shimmering claws.

Wrathion swiped at the dragon with skillful agility. The attacker gave a startled cry as the wicked dagger sliced across his chest, but dodged Wrathion’s next kill blow at his throat, ducking down and with an explosion of energy transformed into an azure nether drake, nether streaming from its body in arcs.

This caught Wrathion by surprise.

He’d heard of nether drakes. He’d been intrigued. Black dragon eggs warped into something not quite black dragon, just like himself.

He had not counted on being ambushed by one.

There was a roar behind him.

Ambushed by two, then.

With a growl he sent a shock of black magic at the blue nether drake before turning swiftly and uppercutting with his dagger at the purple nether drake that had leaped out at him. The weapon sliced through the nether drake’s face, taking out an eye, and the dragon screeched in agony before landing on its head among the path up to the balcony.

The blue nether drake had recovered from the magic bolt. It surged forward, swiping a paw, trying to pull Wrathion’s legs out from under him; he didn’t count on Wrathion transforming into a whelp mid-swipe, causing the drake to miss completely and slam forward on his chest from momentum.

Wrathion twisted in mid-air, reverted back to human form, and landed hard on the blue drake, digging his heels into the drake’s flesh that strangely felt like hard jelly beneath him. The drake turned its shark-like head to bite back at him, but the Black Prince grinned ferociously and grabbed one of the drake’s horns, twisting the drake’s head at a vicious angle and raising his dagger to slit his throat.

A force slammed into him. He went tumbling from the back of the nether drake and into the bannister of Mason’s Folly with a shock of pain, his eyes going blurry from the impact. But he could still see the snarling face of the purple nether drake that had tackled him, and could see that the nether drake had made a very poor decision.

“Hello,” Wrathion said, before hurling his dagger right in the center of the drake’s soft, open throat.

The drake’s eyes widened; its body shook for a moment before silvery blood leaked from its now open mouth, and with a creaking breath, it collapsed lifelessly at Wrathion’s feet.

“No!”

The blue nether drake stared at his dead companion before snapping his head to Wrathion, his face contorted with anger.

The Black Prince smiled and slid his weapon from the drake’s throat, the dragon’s blood slick on the metal.

“I believe you two made a very poor choice in ambushing me.”

The nether drake roared, and a gout of nether flame shot from his mouth. Wrathion dodged easily, almost gracefully, and nearly laughed at that desperation and rage in the other dragon’s eyes.

He spread out his arms openly, tauntingly. “Well? Here I am, drake. By all means, come and get me.” He smiled wider, showing his pointed teeth. “Or would you like to end up like your companion?”

The nether drake’s eyes blazed. That had set him over. Good.

Fueled by immediate hate the dragon crouched and the nether energy about him crackled and popped and hissed like a storm.

Wrathion waited patiently.

The drake pounced, all of his desperation fueling his strong energy, stronger than Wrathion had anticipated. But no matter; he braced himself, waited until the was in the air, until the drake nearly upon him, until the drake was mere inches from grabbing him with his claws -

And then Wrathion ducked quickly slid his dagger up into the nether drake’s gut, felt the muscle give way underneath the steel, felt the blood fly back onto his face as the nether drake sailed over his head and fell with a cry, his legs and wings askew, breath short and rasping.

The Black Prince dropped his smile; his face was calm now, nearly expressionless, as he strode over to the dying nether drake and looked down on him, clasping his hands behind his back with his dagger still in one hand.

The nether drake lifted his head painfully and hissed at him, silvery blood gushing from his gut and drooling out in a pool around him. He tried to get up, but shuddered and fell again in a heap. Wrathion watched quietly.

“Dare I ask who sent you?” The Black Prince asked, a undertone of anger underneath his voice. “I would think the Red Dragonflight was not as low as to send mutants to kill or kidnap me.”

The nether drake scowled, shuddered again, and took a moment before answering, the agony clear in his voice. “Not the Red- Red…whelp.” He spit whelp as if it were a word made of acid, aimed to harm him. Wrathion, again, did not humor the drake with a reaction.

“Unfortunate.” He knelt down to the drake’s level to stare into his eyes which were slowly losing their light. “But I digress!” He smiled politely, took the dagger from behind his back, and put his other hand’s palm on the side of the drake’s head. “It may have been wise to have researched me beforehand. You may have easily avoided your death.” He pat the drake’s head in an almost friendly manner. And then the smile vanished from his face, replaced with a scowl. “No one ambushes me.”

He sunk the dagger slowly into the drake’s throat, then, never breaking eye contact, watching and relishing in how the life left the drake’s eyes until the drake breathed no more. Wrathion stayed crouched there for a moment before standing back up, sheathing the dagger, and brushing himself off.

Only then did he notice the belt like leather strapped around the drake’s back leg; attached to it was a small satchel. He frowned thoughtfully and unlatched the satchel from the belt; he must not have seen it during the scuffle.

“What do you have in here?” Wrathion purred, intrigued at how the bag felt heavy in his hands with the weight of potential. He opened the flap and lifted the thing inside out, grinning immediately.

It was a small robotic whelp, covered in realistic scales, its eyes embedded with rubies. Thankfully it had not suffered much damage from the fight, save for a dent in its belly.

“What a lovely little toy!” Wrathion said, clearly delighted as he looked it over curiously. “I wonder what you do.”

He stepped over the drakes’ corpses casually as he looked the contraption over and headed back towards the Tavern, ignoring the painful throbbing in his shoulder and back from where he had been crushed into the bannister by the purple drake. He made it half-way down when Right and Left nearly ran right into him.

“Your Majesty! What was all of that?!” Right exclaimed, obviously alarmed.

“Hm? Oh.” Wrathion waved his hand dismissively and moved passed the two startled women, continuing on towards the Tavern, still looking over the whelp, turning it over in his hands. “Nothing. A duo of assassins or kidnappers – I wasn’t quite sure which.”

“I hope that’s a joke,” Left grunted, turning her head to look up at Mason’s Folly, unable to see the cooling carcasses from the angle they were in. She shook her head and the two bodyguards fell in their respected places at Wrathion’s side as he walked.

Wrathion smiled wryly but did not answer. “Would you send for an engineer, please? I’d like to solve this little puzzle.” They entered the Tavern and Wrathion put the whelp down on the table, his attention shifting to the scent of finished food.

“Tong! Drinks, please!” He sat down in his usual seat, leaned forward and smiled at the automaton. “Now, let’s see what secrets you have!”


	3. pt. 3

“An automaton! And what a lovely little specimen! Here, do you see the spring-loaded mechanics in its maw? Such excellent mobility with the jaw – ah! Note the clockwork mechanism in the chest. The gem in the center is surely of a magical property - ”

Wrathion put up a hand to silence the gnome engineer, keeping his exasperation off of his face.

“Intriguing, but if you could tell me what it does, I’d be very thankful.”

“Oh. Certainly, certainly.” The gnome gently closed the metal cover he had unscrewed from the whelp’s chest that protected the intricate gears and the main-power gem he had found within before continuing his thorough inspection of the mechanical whelp. He had only just arrived after being sought out by Left and Right themselves, but Wrathion had put the gnome to his assigned task immediately.

The dragon watched quietly but intently from his seat at the table as the gnome murmured to himself and continued looking at the automaton’s numerous wires and gizmos. Wrathion had attempted to figure out the contraption himself while he had waited for the engineer to arrive beforehand, but had stopped when the whelp’s eyes had sprung open and hurled a fireball from its mouth when the Black Prince had touched some sort of hidden button.

Thankfully, he was immune to fire.

Wrathion tapped his clawed fingers on the table; he was getting impatient. It’d taken three whole days to find an engineer skilled enough and a whole other day to get him up the mountain, all while Wrathion was taunted by the mystery of the stupid little whelp who sat innocently on the table, peering at him with its ruby eyes. And now that the gnome was here, he wanted to know what the damn thing did. Now. Especially since the thing belonged to would-be kidnappers or killers.

Sighing loudly, he let his eyes slide from the working engineer to the open doorway leading outside and thought briefly of the nether drakes, whose bodies he’d had removed two days prior and dumped into the river below.

The ache in his back and shoulder he’d been trying to ignore began to flare up again at the mere thought of the two drakes. He frowned, annoyed, and sat up straighter. Being crushed into a bannister hadn’t exactly been very comfortable; a mottled black and yellow bruise had developed mere hours after the scuffle up along his back where he’d been shoved against the stone.

“Oh!”

Wrathion snapped his attention back to gnome.

The engineer beamed up at the Black Prince. “It’s a communication device!” He started pointing out each specific wire and gear with great enthusiasm. “The steam-compulsion gear here connects to the main wire at the main engine jewel- ” He paused when he saw Wrathion’s eyes go dim with boredom, and then let go of the wire he had just be holding sheepishly. “- But, ah, an automaton like this is usually for long-distance communication.” The engineer pat the whelp’s head once. “And it’s a very good device, to be able to communicate as far as the place its serial number says its from!”

Wrathion tilted his head and leaned in closer to inspect the whelp again, merely studying it with his eyes. “And where would that be?”

“Blade’s Edge Mountains. You know, that barren ol’ place in Outland. All spiky and what-not.”

The Black Prince grinned widely, not missing the way the gnome leaned back a fraction at the show of the dragon’s pointed teeth. “Of course! Outland!” He had thought as much – the nether drakes lived in Outland – but it seemed an odd conclusion.

What enemies did he have an entire world away?

The grin slowly slid off his face to be replaced by a thoughtful frown. He tapped a finger to his chin, leaned back in his seat and motioned for Tong, wordlessly, to fetch him a drink.

He quietly mulled the new information over to himself. Some month or two before he’d asked a single agent to inspect Outland, simply out of curiosity. After all, he had concluded, it had been home to conflict between the Burning Legion and mortals before, and could certainly shed some light on dealing with the demons in the oncoming future. The blood elf he’d sent had been a particularly skilled individual, perhaps one of his favorites, and Wrathion had felt sure he might learn something.

And yet the blood elf had not returned. It had been a reconnaissance mission, a quick fly-by of the broken world. Wrathion had simply assumed the worse had befallen his agent, and had moved on.

Yet now nether drakes had come from Outland and ambushed him.

Wrathion did not believe in coincidences. Something had gone very awry.

“How does one use it?” He asked, extending a hand to accept the tea as Tong came over, never taking his eyes off the whelp. Perhaps if he could get a handle on the contraption, he could find out who the nether drakes were no doubt reporting back to, much like how Wrathion’s own agents reported back to him.

The gnome lifted the whelp’s head with a creak and pointed to an enlarged scale below it’s jaw. “Push this, and, theoretically, it should work! You just speak at it, though I’m sure the jaw has to be open.” He opened the whelp’s maw to indicate. “Usually these sort of things have a twin, so there’s another little whelp-thing out there that would say what you’re saying. Which is kinda’ funny, I mean, how it’s a whelp. Since you’re a – you know. A dragon.”

Wrathion rolled his eyes and took a sip from his drink, holding back some sort of quip in retaliation to the gnome’s very insightful observation; the little engineer was aiding him, after all… even if he was somewhat obnoxious.

But he’d gotten what he needed. He knew what the automaton did now. And now he needed to be alone to think about his next move.

He turned his attention to the gnome fully now and smiled, careful not to show his teeth. “Thank you for your help . Right here will show you out and give you your much-deserved reward of… gold, was it?” On cue, Right moved from her place behind the Prince and gestured to the doorway. The gnome nodded and the two exited the Tavern.

Oh, some mortals did anything for gold. It was amusing… and very helpful to him.

Wrathion glanced back down at the whelp and took another drink of his tea.

“Left, have the doors guarded. I don’t want to be interrupted.”

Without question his remaining bodyguard moved to motion outside the back entrance of the Tavern where the hot springs were. A Blacktalon agent, a Worgen, appeared seemingly from mid-air in a flurry of dark shadow. Left muttered a hushed order, and the Worgen nodded briskly before taking his place on the main entrance to the Tavern, keeping his large paw on the hilt of his dagger. Left stood attention at the back entrance. She nodded to Wrathion. Ready.

The dragon set down his tea and pulled the whelp close to him. The first choice was to use the whelp first and try to speak to whoever had no doubt sent the nether drakes after him. It would be quick information, surely, but there were risks. If this enemy answered and realized who Wrathion was, would he cut the transmission off immediately, completely ruining Wrathion’s chance for information? Was it worth exposing himself as very much alive to this enemy, simply to know who it was?

He leaned his head on his hand, his eyelids drooping. “Mm.” Perhaps not. He needed to play this game carefully. But oh, it was so tempting to touch that transmission-scale on the whelp… but he forced himself not to, even as his hand hovered below the button. He sighed, loudly and over-dramatically, and pushed the whelp away -

The blood elf.

A grin lit up his face.

If the Blacktalon he had sent to Outland was still alive, he would certainly have information. Wrathion now had no doubt that sending the Watcher there had been a catalyst for this predicament he found himself in – the gnome confirming that the automaton had come from Outland had confirmed this – and if the blood elf was alive…

Excited, he closed his eyes and focused. He knew before that sending the blood elf to another planet might interfere with the link he had with the gem, making it much more difficult to check up on. But if he could just focus hard enough, feel through all the different pinpoints of light in the darkness of his vision that represented a Watcher’s gem and eyes, find the one he was looking for…

Light filled his vision. Initially his excitement multiplied ten fold – he’d done it, and the blood elf was apparently alive if he was able to communicate – until a wave of pain hit him as his vision cleared… if cleared was the right word at all.

His eyes were fractured, his vision seemingly shattered into a dozen different facets. Different angles of the same place encircled him, and the sensation was so disorienting he could only just make out the basics of the place; it was somewhere dark and damp, somewhere rocky and cave-like.

Wrathion groaned; it was dizzying and painful to look through. What had happened to his gem?

There was another groan that was not his own. Wrathion attempted to concentrate despite his shattered vision.

“My… Prince?” Came a gravelly mumble. Ah! The blood elf was conscious. At least that was good news.

Wrathion concentrated harder. The next step took much more energy on his part – he hardly did it because of this – but he managed to muscle through the disorientation.

“Good! You’re alive,” Wrathion said, communicating through the gem into the elf’s mind. Blood magic did wonders.

The elf groaned again.

“Well. Somewhat,” Wrathion corrected, then sighed, irritated. He’d hoped the elf would have been in better condition, but he might as well be grateful his watcher was breathing.

“I’ve had two nether drakes come after me. Care to explain the predicament?”

The elf didn’t move or speak for a long moment; Wrathion was worried he’d simply died right there until his vision moved with the elf’s turning head.

He could just make out an opening. Ah. The elf was in a cave. And was – oh, something dark was sitting, serpentine-like, at the opening. A guard, certainl-

The dark figured yawned and stretched its wings.

And the Black Prince felt his blood freeze when he realized what he was looking at.

It was a drake.

A black drake.

He was staring at a black drake.

Wrathion nearly lost complete concentration on the Watcher’s gem.

This was impossible. He’d killed them all. He’d killed…

His stupidity hit him. He had never thought to check Outland for the rest of his corrupted kin.

Idiot!

Wrathion clenched his teeth with a scowl and tried to will his calm composure back to him. But oh, it wouldn’t come. His head was whirling; his blood still felt frozen. Everything had been turned on its head in one quick glance.

“Do I have to ask why that drake is still alive?” Wrathion finally managed to hiss.

“Tried to… ambush… another…”

“Another?” Wrathion felt smoke come from his mouth. “How many are there?!”

“I - ”

“Who are you talking to over there?”

Wrathion willed the blood elf to look more in the drake’s direction as the young dragon spoke. He could just see the drake peering over at the blood elf oddly through all of his multiplied angles.

“No one,” the blood elf snapped back, surprisingly confident despite his ill-condition.

The drake stared for a moment, glanced behind her shoulder, then approached cautiously.

“Kill her,” Wrathion growled.

“My Prince, my hand is - ”

The drake was close. Wrathion felt his blood unfreeze, felt the sudden boil of adrenaline and anger, anger at his stupidity, anger at his failure of an agent, anger at these cowardly kin of his for daring to hide from him -

The drake was a mere yard away.

Wrathion forced the agent with sheer will to draw one of his hidden daggers, ignoring how the blood elf’s bones in his hands creaked and popped painfully.

“Kill her!”

—-

“Father! Father, watch this!”

Baron Sablemane rubbed his eyes and groaned. “What, Alacian?

The larger black whelp hopped over to where his father, in mortal form, lounged against the rock. The mechanical whelp was only a quick arms length away on an upturned ledge.

Sablemane dropped his hand and watched exasperatedly as his youngest son, for the fifteenth time, hopped into the air and did a flip before landing clumsily.

“Amazing. Now go away and bother your brother Talsian. I’m very busy.”

Alacian frowned, glanced at the robotic drake, then at his brood-father. “You’ve been staring at that thing for days - ”

“I said go away, Alacian!” Sablemane growled, making a shooing motion with his hand. The whelp skittered off, almost running into a cliff face in his hurry to get away.

The dragon rubbed his eyes again, scowling, and let his eyes linger over to the automaton, who stared back at him lifelessly. It had been days since Sablemane had forcefully ordered his nether drake spies to capture the “Black Prince.” If they knew where he was, it should not have taken that long to track him.

He was loath to admit the worst option. If his murderous little brother had actually managed to kill them… well, that would be incredibly inconvenient. How much longer would it take for another team of nether drakes to find the Black Prince again?

“You blasted thing,” Sablemane grumbled, flicking the nose of the whelp with a metallic ping. “Speak!”

It stared at him blankly.

Sighing loudly and aggravatingly through his nose, Sablemane turned away and looked out over the mountains. Alacian had been right; he’d hardly moved from this spot in days, except to feed. But this was important. The drakes understood. The whelp did not. He cared for all of his children dearly, but Sablemane didn’t have the patience for the littler ones.

Sablemane stood quietly there for a long while, crossing his arms and surveying his home, looking calm but feeling annoyed, highly alert to any of the sounds the automaton might make.

He was about to give up and go hunting when Alacian nearly hurled himself into his chest down from above.

“What the – augh! I told you to go away, pest!”

The whelp recovered quickly. Sablemane only then noticed the fear in his eyes, how his small chest heaved.

“What is it?”

“The prey cave – Ryxia – the blood elf – there’s blood everywhere-”

Sablemane did not need to hear more. He snatched the robotic whelp from its perch, transformed into his draconic form, towering over his small whelp, and leaped into the sky, heading towards the cave he had locked the blood elf in weeks before.

It did not take long. Catching the familiar landscape of the cavern he folded his great red wings and dived, the wind whistling around him.

Talsian rushed out when Sabellian landed at the cave front; he had the same panicked look on his face that Alacian had had.

“Don’t just stare at me like that!” Sabellian snapped, transforming back into his mortal form and brushing passed the drake, entering the gloom of the prey cave.

Ahead of him lay gore.

The large, lithe body of Ryxia lay still and cold against the rock floor, her wings askew and her mouth frozen open in a silent death cry. A dagger protruded at the end of a large gash across her belly where her guts had been spilled. Blood was spattered everywhere; the floor was bathed in it.

Sablemane stared at her quietly for a long time. Another one of his children, dead.

He clenched his hands into fists, barely containing his wrath.

Slowly, he turned to look at the blood elf who was practically crushed beneath the drake. His chest had caved in from the weight. Blood trickled from his mouth in a steady stream.

But he was still alive.

Sablemane looked down at him with a condescending frown.

“You managed to kill one after all,” he said as calmly as he could, but there in his voice was that undercurrent of barely-controlled fury.

The blood elf looked at him, his eyes in agony.

He wondered about how the blood elf had managed to gut a drake with his broken wrist, how he had managed to gut a drake when he’d been purposely starved to weaken him. It should have been physically impossible.

“My Prince demanded it,” the blood elf managed to rasp; Sablemane could practically hear his lungs flap wetly, pierced by broken ribs.

Sablemane narrowed his eyes.

“Your Prince.”

“And he… he will put down the rest of you.” The elf spit at Sablemane with a red glob of blood, where it fell short. “He’s seen… you’re here…” The elf looked up in a triumphant glare and the shattered gem on his headband began to glow faintly. “You can’t… can’t run now.”

Sablemane pursed his lips in a tight, grim line.

There was the answer he had been seeking, the answer the nether drakes could not find for him.

This Black Prince would have Sablemane’s children killed, after all. Ryxia’s cooling body was answer enough for that.

The poor young drake. He should have killed the mortal when he had the chance.

Sablemane scowled. His fury had intensified. “We have no need to run if we are the ones running towards him, little elf. I almost wish you had the chance to warn your Prince,” Sablemane said. “But alas - ”

With a swift movement he half-transformed his hand into a claw and proceeded to rip out the elf’s throat.

Blood went spurting. Sablemane dropped the flesh in his hands as the elf died in front of his eyes.

“Talsian!” Sablemane snapped, turning on his heel and nearly running into the drake as he stalked out of the cave. “Get Nasandria.”

The drake followed him meekly, watching as his father transformed into his dragon form.

“Sir?”

Sabellian whipped his head to his son. His eyes were ablaze with yellow flame.

“If my little brother intends to come after us, then we have no choice but to go after him and finish this before it starts. Ryxia will be our only fatality in this conflict.”

“But the Old Gods - ”

“Old Gods be damned! I would like to see them try to corrupt me through my anger!” He snarled, curling one of his paws, feeling the rock crack beneath his talons. “This ‘Wrathion’ will know what true wrath is!”


	4. Chapter 4

Wrathion was rather pleased with himself.

He sat languishing on the bannister of Mason’s Folly, comfortably in his whelp form where none of his agents and mortals could see him (oh, yes, he was acutely aware about how “humorous” this form seemed to mortals, who hid their smiles when they saw him shift… even he felt annoyed at it at times, for his dragon form was neither fearsome or impressive), with his wings laid down relaxed on either side of the polished rock.

The black drake in Outland had been a scare. His eyes drifted to the crack in the rock where he’d been pushed up against it by the nether drakes; his back still ached. But the Black Prince had dealt with his relative quickly and cunningly, just as he had with all of his other cowardly brothers and sisters; he’d lost an agent, but the results were worth the losses… and so he was pleased with his own quick-thinking. The whelp smiled smugly. How funny to think they could still hide from him even a world away. No one could escape him.

He thought briefly of the event - forcing the agent to kill the drake with his own will, seeing the dragon die, seeing his agent crushed. His gem had, unfortunately, been damaged further in the brawl; he could hardly see the other drake appear at the cry of his apparent sister, but oh, he had managed to see him, too, before the magic gave way and his vision had shattered into not a dozen angles, but a hundred, and he’d been forced to shut off the transmission after some frustration in trying to keep connected.

When Wrathion had come out of the trance he’d sent for two of his best Blacktalons to take care of the remaining drake in Outland.

Yes, the drakes had been a scare, but he’d taken care of it, as he took care of all of his other… problems.

The Black Prince turned his head to look out over the Jade Forest below, the smug smile still on his face. He leaned his head to rest down on his claws casually, relaxed.

Defeating his enemies was just too deliciously easy.

—-

Sabellian stared hard at the gargantuan vortex of the Dark Portal.

The two hooded figures flanking the portal’s side and the large dragon head extending from its top loomed down at him, towering over the wyrm despite his sizable height. It felt like they were waiting for him to make his move, judging him from their darkened, hooded faces… or perhaps it was his own mind simply doubting itself. He snorted.

“Well? Are we going?” Nasandria, his eldest drake, sounded impatient.

Sabellian glared in annoyance at the green and purples of the vortex, but did not look away to treat his child to the same look. She was only a whelp when they had come to Outland with Deathwing; she couldn’t have remembered fully the taint of the Old Gods, their dark whispers, the haunted dreams, the urge to kill and hurt and maim.

She couldn’t remember. Sabellian could.

“In a moment,” he murmured.

What would happen once he stepped through the portal and put a single paw on the earth of Azeroth for the first time in years? The dragon mulled to himself quietly. Would the corruption latch back onto his brain like a suction, taking his sanity instantly? Would it creep quietly into his head? Would it appear at all? He had spoken adamantly after Ryxia’s death with lack of fear against his previous shadowy masters, but now…

Were the risks worth it?

The stench of Ryxia’s pyre burning came to him, which they had executed before they had left. Sabellian had lost so many children to Gruul and his seven sons… no. He could not allow this Black Prince, his own half-brother, to be a threat to them as well. He would not let his flight live in fear, live in defense and caution, live wary of mortal assassins.

Sabellian had to do what must be done. The anger came to him again, bright and burning, singing away the doubt and his latent fear of the Old Gods. He would enjoy ripping the Prince from his high horse and crushing him into the mud.

“I shall go first. If I do not return after a moment, then all will be well… or I have given into the Old Gods and don’t have the sense to walk back in the blasted Portal. But I am hoping it is the former.”

Sabellian did not waste time for protests or questions. He lifted from his haunches and strode through the vortex. All around him, like a touchable atmosphere, the dragon felt the world shift and warp as he was transported from one world to the next. It was not an altogether pleasant feeling. There was a subdued roar, the ripping of nether, the spark of powerful arcane magic -

A paw hit the ground on the other side - Azeroth. He slid the rest of his reptilian body forward… and braced himself for a surge of darkness in his mind.

Any moment now…

Sabellian opened an eye.

Nothing. No darkness came. No whispers chattered in his skull.

“For now,” he muttered. And yet he still allowed himself to relax for the time being. The dusty red landscape of the Blasted Lands stretched out before him, deserted and barren; scattered lightning flashed off in the distance by the coast.

He sat and waited for his drakes, stretching out his great wings to ready them for their long flight to Pandaria. How long would the corruption stay away? Not long, he imagined,with sure pessimism. If they could deal with this Prince quickly and efficiently, then he would not have to worry.

There was a whirling behind him as his two drakes appeared through the Dark Portal.

“It’s about time,” Sabellian grumbled, lifting to all fours.

“But you said to wai -”

“None of that. Let’s start this errand.” He turned to Nasandria. “The whelp. Do you have it?”

The drake nodded, tilting her head to the leather belt around her girth where the automaton had been attached.

“Good girl.” He spread his wings. “Now, let us pay my brother a visit!”

—-

The yellowed stretch of Westfall farmlands yawned out below the three black dragons as they glided at a quickened pace high above. The coast of the sea loomed close.

“How far, Nasandria?” He called behind him, dipping down at an angle as a gust of wind hit them hard as they entered the sky above the Great Sea. They had planned to fly the bulk of their travel above the water, away from the risk of mortal eyes who might be swayed to shoot them down when they caught a glance of their onyx hides, stopping only at abandoned islands along the way.

His eldest drake glanced down at the automaton in her paws and with a gentle click of a claw, opened the sheath of metal against the whelp’s chest, unveiling its shiny innards. In the center was a gem, its power source; it pulsed faintly.

“Far,” Nasandria said flatly, studying the gem’s silent beeping for a moment. Sabellian was thankful for the little contraption; the gnomes he’d commissioned it from had certainly be thorough, or perhaps overzealous, in its machinery. They had installed a locating device in both whelps through the main gem; when the right button was pushed, hidden behind the gem itself, the whelp would begin seeking out its twin, the gem pulsing like a heart, getting deeper in color and faster in beats the closer the two automatons were.

The gnomes had said it was because they tended to lose track of their own doodads. Sabellian had thought it stupid beforehand – he never lost track of anything – but he was immensely grateful for it now. Mortals were, at times, grating, but other times, they were… clever.

There was another click as Nasandria slid the metal back over the gem. Sabellian looked up casually at the sky, pleased to find it still cloudless and sunny; excellent flying weather. They could glide like this for hours -

“Father.” Sabellian flicked his yellow eyes over to Talsian, who flew to his left. “When we get to Pandaria, well – the nether drakes said Wrathion had a good deal of agents around the continent, yes? They’ll surely see us coming. It’ll be difficult to kill - “

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re stupid or just thick-headed.” Sabellian looked away. “As I said before we left Blade’s Edge, we track at least to where the nether drakes left off through the automaton. They’re probably dead. At the very least, the machine should be close to them. Or not, which would be irritating. Either way, we shall follow their footsteps and find the ‘Black Prince’ ourselves if we must.” He paused thoughtfully, flexing his claws to shake off the salt that was beginning to accumulate against the delicate scales there from the sea wind. “Mortal guises are a must, of course. We don’t want to alarm his little underlings.”

“I’m still not sure -”

“I have fooled Rexxar for years that I am a normal human. He’s never suspected my true form. My little brother’s agents will not suspect either.”

Talsian went quiet. The only sound now was the soft gliding of the wind around them and the beats of their wings.

The land had disappeared behind them now. The sea stretched on endlessly, a fathomless plane of blue. In days they would arrive beyond the parted mists, and in days he would see Wrathion with his own eyes.

He certainly hoped his little brother was ready.

—-

The Blacktalon Watcher scanned the crowded Pandaren inn.

The night had been uneventful in the Valley of the Four Winds. It was to be expected in an area devoted largely to farming, but the Worgen rogue couldn’t help but be frustrated in his underwhelming post. Oftentimes he resented the Prince for sending him here week after week and had wondered if this “Blacktalon” to-do was worth it.

He sighed loudly and twitched his sharp nose. He knew, despite his strongest wishes, that he wouldn’t find anything outstanding in the Valley; most of the greatest wonders here had been unlocked already, notably the mystery of the waters whose nourishment created monstrous crops for the farmers and, at times, larger-than-life animals. He had not been there for the report, but he had overheard a human agent quietly mocking the way their Prince’s eyes had widened with the quickened excitement akin to a child’s.

The Watcher pinned his ears back. At the very least, the inn here allowed for a steady stream of information. Patrons tended to talk when their tongues were loose from brew. That would have to do.

“No no no no no – I heard that Fung wash’ goin’ to gif’ his yaks to that younger farmer – what’sh his name? Uh…”

“No, you dolt, he ain’t gonna give his yaks to anyone. Those ‘er his pride ‘n joy!”

“I’m tellin' you, I heard it -”

The Blacktalon rubbed at the bridge of his muzzle. “Steady stream of information” didn’t necessarily mean “information the Prince wanted.”

He scanned the inn again, desperate to find something of interest that wasn’t centered on what crops were harvested that day or what shenanigans that drunk Jinyu in Halfhill had gotten himself into now.

Oh – there was something semi-interesting. On the farthest, darkest corner of the room, three humans picked at the bones of a meal. The Worgen was not surprised to see them here; there was often many strangers beyond the mists that stumbled into this tavern, down-trodden, bruised, or otherwise exhausted, hoping for food or a drink to settle the nerves. What he was surprised about was when the woman in the group looked up from her empty plate and stared at him the moment he’d laid eyes on the three.

The Worgen scowled and beamed her down. He abhorredwhen people took notice of him in the shadows; they hardly did, to be sure, but it was an insult to his abilities.

The oldest man at the table glanced up casually and fixed him with a stare before looking back down. He made a dismissive gesture at the woman, seemed to murmur something under his breath, and went back to gnawing at bones. The woman looked away and sipped at her drink, but the Worgen could still see the stiff tension in her shoulders.

One of the Watcher’s ears twitched. It was not the oddest reaction people had had to his presence – at one point he’d been swatted and shooed at with the end of a broom by a very vocal Pandaren innkeeper after she’d proclaimed “she didn’t like the look of him” - but it was still questionable. He decided to keep an eye on them, just in case, but to sway their suspicions he glanced away and began theatrically scanning the bar.

Perhaps ten minutes had passed when the Worgen glanced back in their direction -

And saw they’d promptly disappeared.

His scowl deepened. Twice in one night – no, twice in ten minutes – he had slipped up. They had noticed him, and now he’d lost them. At least the Black Prince was not here to see him fai -

A hand muzzled off his mouth and an arm cut around his waist and he was pulled roughly backwards into the shadows.

Startled, the Blacktalon flailed and struck backwards with his elbow; there was a grunt as he hit his assailant, who then loosened their grip; the Worgen surged forward, attempting to break free so he could grab his daggers -

A more powerful set of hands grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him high off the ground. With a woosh he was turned and with a slam his back hit the wall. The room spun.

“Tal, if you would please hold our guest there.”

The hands let go, but another grabbed him, keeping him pinned to the wall. The Worgen hissed and kicked out again with his powerful legs, unable to grab the dagger at his belt.

“There’s really no use for that,” said the voice again with a slightly amused but annoyed tone. The Watcher focused on its direction as his vision began to straighten again.

It was the older man he had seen at the table. A dark cloak was draped around his shoulders, and he watched the Worgen with interest, despite the slight frown on his face. He smoothed back his goatee and mustache with a thumb as the two studied each other.

“You know who I am, right?” The Watcher growled, and struggled again. The other male he’d seen at the table, the youngest one, was holding him, and despite his smaller stature in comparison to the man-beast he did not struggle with keeping the Blacktalon in place; his grip was like iron.

“Don’t start blabbering on and on about your Prince and what he’ll do and what will happen to me. I’ve really been preached about it enough already.” The man paused, then tilted his head thoughtfully. “I just have some friendly questions about your ‘Prince’.”

“This doesn’t seem very friendly!”

“No. I suppose it doesn’t.” The human shrugged nonchalantly. “But how else were we going to be able to ask you anything?”

The Watcher huffed. “I would never betray his Majesty.”

The man went silent now and was simply eying him curiously. The Worgen could hear the muted sounds of drunken Pandaren and clanging plates and mugs from beyond – where exactly had they pulled him into? An abandoned room? It smelled and looked stuffy enough.

“I really didn’t plan to harm you, Worgen,” the human drawled. “As long as you’re honest with me, I will gladly let you go.” He smiled a forced smile. “I do have places to be, as I’m sure you do.”

The Watcher said nothing.

“I simply wish to know what your Prince looks like. Hair, eyes, clothes…”

“No.”

The man raised a brow. “Really? You won’t even answer a simple question like that?”

“No, I won’t.”

The man actually look impressed.

“He does have you all wrapped around his finger, doesn’t he?” The human sighed loudly. “I wonder how he managed it. But no matter. That may come later. For now, I need this. And if I really must…” He shook his head. “Then I suppose I shall continue down another path if we cannot do this like mature, peaceful adults. Tal, if you would.”

Tal punched the Worgen hard in the gut and an explosion of sour pain shot up his stomach. The Blacktalon gasped and fell to his knees, finding himself free of the younger human’s grip, and yet even with that there was no respite. Three pointed, short blades came up to his furred neck, close enough to make his skin sting at their touch; Tal had come equipped with a vicious fist weapon, whose base was made of an open dragon maw.

“I shall ask you again. I would like to know what your Prince looks like. If you do not answer, I will ask my son here to kill you.”

The Worgen breathed quickly. He was trained for situations like these. But there was no conceivable way to twist from the physical impossibility of the iron grip of the man’s son or the iron blades of the fist weapon.

“You’re bluffing.”

The man glanced down at his son. Tal pushed the blades harder into the Worgen’s throat until blood began to trickle from the fur and the Blacktalon growled in pain.

“Am I? To be straight with you, I don’t like drawing out torture. It’s an unfortunate business. A quick threat – or, in your case, a promise - is all that is needed. And besides! I can find another ‘agent’ quickly enough. You all are everywhere.”

The blades continued digging in deeper and the pain continued intensifying until he could feel it tremor down his spine, and he whined loudly, twisting his head back and forth in a failed attempt to escape the slowly sinking blades into his neck. But they continued sinking and sinking until his heart was beating too fast, and there was no escape at all - he had quickly over-viewed the situation – and what did Wrathion’s appearance matter anyway - ?

“Stop! Stop! Alright, alright, I’ll tell you! Just get that bloody thing off of my neck!”

The blades stopped their slow descent into his flesh and pulled back abruptly.

The Blacktalon rubbed at his throat and looked down at the slick, shiny blood against the fingertips of his leather gloves. He growled and rubbed it between his thumb and index finger; tonight had turned out eventful, but in the opposite way that he had hoped.

“He’s much younger than you. Bright red eyes – they glow. Dark curly hair. A goatee. A gold hoop on his right ear. A turban as well.” When the Worgen spoke, all the words stumbled from his mouth too quickly in a slush; he didn’t want those blades near him again. He was loyal to his Majesty… but loyalty only went so far to him. His life was worth more than his service.

Besides, what the Prince didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Unless, of course, this group did hurt him. Then that would end poorly for everyone.

At least he’d still be alive.

“Mm. That will do. Help the poor dog up, if you would.”

He was thrust to his feet with an unkind hand.

“Not that hard, was it?” The man said, smiling almost politely, ignoring the vicious glare the Worgen gave him. “I am sorry. But I digress. Thank you for the valuable information.” He paused and flicked his eyes to the side – and only then did the Watcher realize that his eyes weren’t just yellow.

They were glowing.

Just like -

“Wait. Who the hell are you?”

The man smiled again. “Now, my friend, I don’t want to spoil the surprise! If I did, then I really would have to kill you.” There was a shifting in the shadows to his right and the cold-eyed woman that had locked in on the Worgen appeared with a vicious smirk. “But even so, I must have you … staying ‘low.’ I don’t want you to run back to your master. Nasrin, if you would be so kind as to help this Blacktalon here…”

With a blur she seemed to surge forward and the Worgen was still too dizzy from the blades and his back to even think about grabbing his dagger. A fist punched at his neck, another at the tender flesh beneath his shoulderblades, and he collapsed once more as the world went dark.


	5. Chapter 5

The Veiled Stair was quiet.

The high afternoon was slowly simmering down into a peaceful dusk, and Wrathion the Black Prince leaned forward in his seat on the bench and studied the Mogu runestones in front of him, freshly delivered from a champion only moments before. Oh, they were fascinating already. He grinned, glancing them over, and began to pick the most interesting looking specimen from the pile, ready to dig into its secrets.

He’d sent everyone away, by nowonly his guards remained.

Wrathion had begun reading when there was the soft scuffling of leather soles of an Agent. The Black Prince did not look up.

“My Prince, there’s a party coming along the Path. Shall I invite them in?”

Wrathion shook his head and once again turned his full attention back on the runestones, squinting his eyes in concentration.

“Send then away, would you? I’m not accepting any more visitors.”

The Agent’s footsteps retreated outside; silence enveloped the Tavern once more and Wrathion was content, reading closely the odd mix of Mogu and what seemed to be Titan script upon the shattered, ancient slabs laid out in front of him. He had begun reaching for his tea to wet his dry mouth when he heard a loud but muffled conversation outside.

Wrathion glanced up, raising an eyebrow and frowning slightly. He could make out his watcher’s voice, blurred by the distance, and – there, another voice, one unfamiliar. It sounded like an argument. Wrathion took a sip from his tea, found it lukewarm, and, now thoroughly annoyed, looked back down to read again with the hopes the irritation outside would end swiftly.

It did. Wrathion breathed out, his shoulders relaxing. A clawed hand drifted over one of the slab’s inscriptions, the one he had reread perhaps three times during his break in concentration from the noises outside. If only he could decipher -

The sound of heavy footsteps broke his thoughts again. It was not the light footsteps of his agent; indeed it sounded like many people at once. Wrathion clacked his fingers impatiently against the runestone. It must have been the party he’d asked to send away. Had his agent completely misunderstood him?

“I said I would be accepting no more visitors - ” he began, looking up, and promptly stopped mid-sentence.

Three humans stood in front of the open doorway; the two youngest, a woman and a man with dark skin and dark hair, flanked the tallest and eldest human, who was staring at Wrathion with his yellowed eyes as one might stare at an exotic but annoying bug. His skin and hair, too, were dark, his black hair coming just above his shoulders and feathering out softly behind his scalp. A dark cloak covered his form.

Wrathion’s claws raked against the stone once, sharply. The nerves along his shoulders and back began to stand on edge, like the hackles on a dog.

Right and Left must have felt their Prince’s sudden shift in mood; behind him he heard the two clutch their ranged weapons tighter and to attention in their hands.

These three – there was something so fleetingly familiar about them. Something intimate. Something… wrong. Forgotten warning bells were ringing behind his eyes as the leader of the party studied him. But the harder he tried to pinpoint the feeling the quicker it fluttered away, as if their very identities and scent had been muted or otherwise hidden.

“What do I owe the pleasure?” Wrathion asked politely, his voice taut, aiming to stall as his eyes assessed their features closely.

The man who seemed to be the leader of the party smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “You’re the Black Prince Wrathion, I assume?” His ocher eyes flickered over Wrathion again, an eyebrow raised. “I suppose with the get-up you are, though it never hurts to ask.”

Wrathion bit the inside of his cheek at the subtle insult, but otherwise attempted to ignore it in favor for dealing pleasantries with this problem. “I would like to know who’s asking.” He smiled back, allowing the small glint of his sharp teeth to show against his dark lips. “It would be rude for a host to introduce themselves before a guest!”

“Oh, my apologies.” And much to Wrathion’s affront the black-haired man bowed low enough for the Prince to realize it was performed in sarcasm; he even went as far as to spread his arms out in false subservience. Wrathion’s eyes flashed. The nerve -

The man straightened back up leisurely, but the amused smile was gone. “I am Baron Sablemane.” He began to shrug off his cloak, revealing a brilliance of red and orange robes beneath and, once completely shed of the heavy garment, tossed it off to the side to lay haphazardly over a table.

Wrathion was beginning to take in the full armor set of snarling shake heads at the man’s shoulders when the scent of black dragon hit him hard in the face.

His claws dug into the table in a single sharp motion and for the briefest of moments his eyes widened, his expression unguarded and startled.

No – he’d killed the drakes -

Baron Sablemane must have seen the Prince’s startled face because he smiled grimly. “I was almost disappointed when you didn’t catch on immediately – but whelps’ senses of smell are marginally less developed. Besides, the cloaks do wonders.”

Wrathion stared for a moment longer. Their dark hair and skin, just like his, the way Sablemane’s eyes seemed to glow -

Idiot. He should have seen it before!

There must have been more he did not see in Outland. More that had now shown up on his doorstep!

Wrathion thought quickly.

The only black dragon he had ever dealt with personally was Fahrad – and even then he knew what to expect from having lived with him for weeks, and even then he’d had someone to help him. No, this… this had to be dealt with subtlety, with delicacy… he had to get this dragon’s guard down, he had to seek a weakness, despite every instinct that was sill reeling from his panicked surprise urging him to hurl a dagger or a blast of draconic magic at his corrupted brethren’s chest.

The Prince slipped into his act before giving into his instincts and gave his best smile. “How interesting! I’d thought myself the last of my kind - ”

“When you saw my drake then had her murdered?” Sablemane was not looking at him kindly.

Wrathion’s smile wavered.

“Oh.” His smile came back again confidently, even brighter and toothier than before. “As it happens, I’ve made it my … duty to eliminate my corrupted brothers and sisters for the greater good.” His voice had heightened to a strangely cheery one. “Your drake was merely a needed casualty, as will the rest of your kin be. Do not take it personally.”

Sablemane stared at him for a moment.

“Ah. And if we lack corruption?”

Wrathion laughed slightly. “Of course you don’t lack corruption. Only I am free from the Old Gods.” He smirked widely, smugly, at Sablemane. “Are they whispering to you now, I wonder?”

Sablemane snorted and walked forward. Wrathion tensed – but the elder dragon seemed almost disinterested in him, instead turning to inspect the room.

“No. As it happens, being in Outland has severed ties with the Old Gods on Azeroth. For now.” He glanced over at Wrathion, raising a brow. “I don’t expect you to believe me.”

Wrathion smiled sweetly. “I don’t.”

“Mm.” Sablemane glanced away from him, studying the crossed amber swords hanging above Wrathion’s head. “So I suppose you do plan to kill the rest of my family, then? I’d like to hear it with your own voice.”

“Of course,” Wrathion said, still smirking. “You’ll be a threat to mortal lives otherwise. And no doubt to me.”

Sablemane looked at him again. Wrathion could not decipher what he was thinking.

“Very well.” He sighed loudly. “From one direct son of Deathwing to another, I would advise you to be less… smug. Though it seems too late for that.”

Wrathion’s smile soured. A direct son of Deathwing? “You’re -?”

“Nefarian and Onyxia were my clutch brother and sister. Yes. I am your half-brother.” He sounded almost bored.

“I see,” Wrathion murmured. Oh. This was unexpected. A slight tinge of anxiety made his stomach almost tighten. No. He had to keep himself cool and collected… he had to show himself as unphased in order to get this supposed half-brother’s guard down, as he had planned before, so he could give the signal to Left and Right quickly enough so that they could kill him right there.

“Do you? Good. Then stop talking.”

Wrathion scowled, straightening in his seat. He could handle one insult, but this many? How dare this Sablemane speak to him like this -

“I’ll make this quick, Black Prince. I don’t take… kindly to my family being threatened,” Sablemane drawled, vacantly flipping through the Saurok and the Jinyu novel that lay on the table across from the Prince. Wrathion watched him readily; his claws were tense against the wood. Just a step closer and he could give Left and Right the signal to put bullet and bolt in his forehead. “We’ve suffered enough causalities from Gruul the Dragonslayer to put up with some - ” his eyes flickered over to Wrathion - “make-believe prince.”

“Make-believe - ?”

“I wasn’t finished talking. I loath interruptions.” He shut the novel closed, ignoring the glower Wrathion was giving him. “So. I’ve come to deal with the problem personally. Unlike you, I am confident enough to send myself as my own assassin to kill the enemies that threaten me.”

Wrathion had heard enough. This had gone too far; it had to end now. “Right, Left!”

The two guards raised their respected weapons behind him and with a click they began to pull the triggers -

Sablemane glanced at them, lifted a hand, and with a crushing gesture of his fingers the gun and crossbow exploded, sending shards of metal and wood flying. Even Wrathion jumped, and it was only then, when he turned his face to block his eyes, that he saw the two other dragons that had come in with Sablemane had disappeared.

“Our brother Nefarian taught me the trick. I’ve hardly had to use it until now!” He smiled, almost politely. “I’m sorry; you have no need for those weapons, ladies.” He turned to Wrathion now, fully, his eyes malicious. “Now. Let’s get this started, shall we?”

And then the back wall exploded.

Wood splinters flew. There was a roar and a cacophony of snarls and as Wrathion ducked and turned his head to shield his eyes he saw the two drakes that had burst through the wall grab Left and Right around their waists and disappear with the two guards through the gaping opening.

Wrathion hardly had time to react. He turned in pure instinct – was it panic? - and hurled a clumsy bolt of black fire at Sablemane only to have the elder dragon catch the flame in his hands and quench it with a fist. Wrathion stood, eyes wide, intending to try again with a dagger but Sablemane was too fast, much too fast - he surged forward with surprising speed and grabbed Wrathion by his leather sash, lifted him off of his feet with ease, turned -

And threw him out of the doorway.

The world spun. With a startled cry and a boom of pain Wrathion landed on his back, sliding a foot or two until coming to a rest against the white tree outside the Tavern. He must have landed directly on his healing bruise; his shoulder and spine were in agony at the impact.

The dragon lay there for a moment, dazed and in pain, his eyes clenched shut, not quite understanding what had just happened - … until he heard a far off roar and a furious yell that must have belonged to Left, and he snapped back to reality.

Forcing himself up with a groan, his back aflame, he saw with his shaken eyes Sablemane exit the Tavern and walk down the steps with all the casualness of a Sunday stroll. His eyes were lidded, seemingly relaxed, but were transfixed on the Prince.

Well. It certainly looked like his plan of killing by subtlety had literally gotten thrown out the window.

Wrathion scrambled to his feet and stumbled once before catching his balance, dirt clinging to the back of his clothes, as his half-brother approached. Flames had begun to flicker at the tops of Sablemane’s red gloves, yet the cloth remained unsinged.

“Come now, little brother,” Sablemane chided while he slowly closed the distance between them. “You make this too easy. The Black Prince I’ve heard rumors of wouldn’t allow himself to be thrown about like a ragdoll, I’m sure.”

Wrathion found himself beginning to take a step back as Sablemane came closer, but he scowled and forced himself to stand his ground. “You simply took me by surprise.” His hand found the hilt of his dagger that hung at his belt. “I don’t believe it will happen again.” There was a slight growl in his otherwise calm voice, belaying his anger.

Sablemane had caught the movement of his wrist; he glanced down at the hilt of the dagger and smiled as if amused. The flames on his fingertips had begun to envelop his hands and the sounds of roars and yells still echoed off in the background; Wrathion briefly found himself wondering if Right and Left were dealing with the drakes well – and –… where were the rest of his Blacktalons, anyway?

“That flimsy letter-opener will hardly do you any good. You’re welcome to try, however.”

Wrathion opened his mouth to snap back some snarky retort when the flames from Sablemane’s hands coalesced into a ball of shrieking fire and smacked him straight in the face.

The flames swept off him harmlessly, leaving him untouched, but it was the force of pressure that made him yelp and stumble back. Another hit his chest and stomach before he had time to move or react, but when the fourth came shrieking at him he had the sense to finally duck and move out of the way, the fireball plunging deep into the bone-white tree with a hiss, smoke billowing quickly from the outer lay of dry bark as it began to burn.

Wrathion took advantage of the dry smoke, ducking behind it despite the pain still thrumming in his face and back, and sent his own ray of black fire at Sablemane, who’d turned with a scowl; he snarled as the black ray hit his shoulder hard.

Wrathion grinned widely, enthused by landing a hit, and sent another firebeam. Sablemane lifted the staff from his back in time to have the beam ricochet from its width and burst against the Tavern behind him, the walls smoking.

“You’ll have to try harder than that,” Sablemane said, and Wrathion, with his own scowl, sent another, only for Sablemane to respond with his own fireball.

They continued like this for multiple blows, most rays and beams of fire sailing over each others’ heads as they dodged and ducked, sparks and flames spitting out across the ground, the denser grass catching aflame and adding its own small-scale fires to the now-roaring inferno of the tree. One of Sablemane’s flames exploded into the kite station and that, too, went aflame.

Wrathion jumped nimbly over a lowly thrown missile and landed, coughing slightly from the furious smoke that now swirled into the Mists of the Veiled Stair. How long could he keep this up? Sablemane hardly looked injured from the few bolts Wrathion had managed to land on him; if anything, he looked angrier, or more annoyed.

“Enough!”

Sablemane raised his hands, murmured an incantation under his breath, and a powerful spell spiraled into his hands, glowing a brilliant orange, sparking like an ember. He threw it forward – and the ground in front of the Prince seemed to explode.

The force sent Wrathion tumbling backwards again – but no, he was ready this time. He shifted into his whelp form before impact and twisted up and over to land on top of the wooden roof of the Tavern.

Sablemane laughed uproariously the instant he transformed. “You are a whelp!” He laughed again, louder. Wrathion glared down at him and fluffed out his wings in an attempt to appear larger. The smoke and flames from the burning tree billowed about Sablemane like a curtain, and the dragon looked up at Wrathion, the amusement still in his eyes now alight with the red of the fire around him.

“There is nothing funny about it,” Wrathion snapped.

“Then you have a poor sense of humor. No matter.” Sablemane pointed his metal staff’s tip towards Wrathion and with a hiss and a buzz a sizzling beam of arcane energy shot from it. The whelp scrambled out of the way and there was an audible hiss as the missile hit the roof and smoked.

“Do not set my Tavern on fire!”

ZAP. Another beam.

“It’s a bit too late for that,” Sablemane pointed out. He began to shoot one laser after another in quick succession. Wrathion dodged each easily, nimble in his smaller form, and chanced a glance over his shoulder as Sablemane took his aim again; a far-off, frenzied roar had caught Wrathion’s attention. There, near the saurok cave, Left and the eldest drake were attempting to pin each other down for a kill blow -… but Left was too agile to grab and the drake was too heavy to tackle. They were locked, viciously, in a stalemate.

Where was Right and the other drake?

There was a subtle, magnetic humming Wrathion heard and recognized in time to jump out of the way as another beam of arcane energy scorched at where he just stood.

“Little pest! Stay still!”

“Perhaps you should simply aim better!” Wrathion called down, then ducked as Sablemane sent an angry fireball at him in retort.

If Wrathion could just distract Sablemane long enough, just long enough, at least until Left had time to dispatch her own assailant, then his loyal bodyguard could come to his aid. Or perhaps another agent could hear the commotion up the slope, or even a champion could hear, someone, anyone, that could surely assist him with a situation that the darker parts of his mind began to realize he could not handle alone.

And then, as he dodged another laser, he realized - he had done nothing like this – fighting – without the help of a champion or his guards. Even when the red dragon had come to assassinate him, he’d had Fahrad to help.

He certainly had no one now.

Wrathion ground his teeth at the his weakness, at the slight, subtle pang of helplessness in the pit of his gut. He didn’t like it. At all.

An especially large bolt exploded an inch away from Wrathion’s face and he jumped from his reverie – but it was too late and the roof had begun to smolder too quickly. It caved in beneath him.

Startled, he tried to find purchase. The wood only slipped from his claws and a sharp pain flicked up his scales when he fell as the splinters raked across them.

There was a groan and a crunch as he landed haphazardly on his belly; fire and smoke surrounded him fully, scorching out the rest of the world beyond. Wrathion frowned and looked around, confused – oh! He’d landed on one of the burning trees branches of the tree, far above and hidden from Sablemane. What luck!

He squinted down through the smoke, breathing heavily, his claws digging into the bark. He could no longer hear Right or Left above the roar of the flames around him; with a resigned growl he realized he could no longer count on them.

No matter. He was the Black Prince! Maybe he hadn’t done something like this without help before, but he was a quick learner, he assured him confidently. He could do anything.

The silhouette of Sablemane appeared below, hazy from the thick smoke of the tree. This was his chance. If he could just get an inch closer, if he could shift into his human form fast enough, if he could grab his dagger fast enough -

Wrathion crawled forward on the branch and widened his eyes when the bark groaned from the slight shift in weight…

And then snap.

He tumbled over and found himself grabbed by the neck by a strong hand, and as he flailed and flapped his wings uselessly Sablemane, who had grabbed him mid-fall, brought him up to eye level.

“There you are. Finally. Do you know how easily I could break your neck? If you - ”

Wrathion shifted in human form so quickly even Sablemane looked surprised, and with a furious growl the Prince kicked out with all the power of a cornered animal and struck the elder dragon in the stomach with his heels. The man stumbled with a grimace, loosening his grip.

Wrathion tore himself away the dragon, landed lithely on his feet, grabbed his dagger and turned back with a snarl, uppercutting with his weapon to attempt to impale it into the black dragon’s chest.

Sablemane had recovered too fast for Wrathion’s liking, however, and brought up his staff to block. An aggravated sound escaped the younger dragon and he tried again at a different angle, advancing a step each time, driving Sablemane back towards the Path. Yet each time Wrathion slashed his dagger, Sablemane blocked it with the thick width of the staff. It didn’t help that the smoke was blurring Wrathion’s eyes, making his strikes nearly blind, nor did the fierce pain still throbbing in his back or the blood still dripping from his gloved hands from the splinters, all while Sablemane was hardly touched.

“The rogues taught you well!” Sablemane complimented, defending himself against another uppercut.

“I taught myself,” Wrathion quipped back smugly, then slammed one of his heels down onto Sablemane’s feet. Sablemane snarled painfully and jerked back, and – there! Wrathion found his chance and took it, surging forward with the dagger. The other black dragon saw and moved his neck away in time from being slit, though the dagger still opened a deep slash across his upper arm.

Wrathion’s victory was shortlived; Sablemane hissed, turned his staff and slammed the end of it into Wrathion’s chest with inhuman speed. There was a snapping pain and Wrathion suppressed a yell as a sharp, warm pain blossomed in his chest – had he just broken a rib? He stumbled and caught his balance. How much worse was this going to get?!

“That was a coward’s move,” the elder dragon admonished, annoyed, as Wrathion recovered from the staff hit.

“I hardly see – agh!” He ducked as Sablemane whipped his staff, the metal shrieking, at his head; it sailed passed him harmlessly, but the residual arcane energy from the weapon fell down to his face.

The staff kept swinging back at him, deadly and precise. Wrathion kept ducking, backing up slowly. Now he was the one being driven back, not Sablemane, and the sudden shift in power made him just angry enough.

“This - ” duck “ - is- ” dodge “ - ridiculous!”

Sablemane went to hit across his head again – but promptly feinted the move and with a crunch sent it slamming against Wrathion’s side.

The agony from his broken ribs blossomed fiercer; distantly, as if he had retreated far into himself, he heard a strangled cry of pain and realized it was his own voice.

He hardly saw Sablemane rush at him.

Wrathion felt a hand grab him by the e fringe of his scaled shirt and his feet left the ground as he was lifted a second time.

“You’ve fought better than I thought you would, I’ll admit,” Sablemane said, and Wrathion only managed a groan in reply. Oh, it hurt. His whole world was pain.

They were moving now; Sablemane was walking with him, still holding him aloft as if he weighed no more than a child. “Did you know the drake you killed was one of my youngest? Very intelligent, as well. She was gifted in learning languages; she often stopped adventurers to attempt to speak to them in Common, in Orcish.” Around them the fire burned. “She would have been even more gifted as an adult.”

“Unfortunate. I would have still killed her if I knew,” Wrathion said, mustering up his usual smugness through the pain as he began to become aware of himself again. “In fact, I’m almost disappointed Gruul didn’t kill more of your children -”

Sablemane snarled and punched him hard across the face with his free hand with such force Wrathion’s turban fell off.

The pain was immediate and terrible. He jerked back with a yell but could not go anywhere; Sablemane held him fast. His right eye already began to swell shut.

And then Sablemane threw him up at the Tavern with all the strength of his hidden dragon form.

Wrathion crashed through the front Tavern wall, shards of wood flying, and smacked back against none other than the bench he usually sat in before stilling to a halt.

If he thought his world was pain before, then his whole existence was it now. Every nerve on his body seemed to be screaming, on fire, in pure anguish.

The dragon laid there for a moment, too in pain to even utter a groan, simply trying to push back the world-shattering agony but finding it too difficult to stem. He conceded in at least taking a deep breath – but even he regretted that, his broken ribs growing tense with the inhale.

This was ridiculous. He was Wrathion, the Prince of the Black Dragonflight, uncorrupted, without fear of the Old Gods. He had eliminated his family on Azeroth, had hunted them down, had sent his own gifted assassin after them no matter where the wyrms had hid. He set his champions out to be pawns, watched as they did his bidding so willingly, he watched the Alliance and Horde kill each other senselessly and waited for the right time to choose the side that would conquer, he had found secrets on Pandaria he had not even shared with his heroes. He couldn’t just wallow here in agony like some low-life creature.

He forced himself to open his left eye – his right refused to – and sit up a bit straighter against the bench, a low hiss escaping his lips as his body throbbed.

His Tavern… oh, it was near to half-way destroyed: the roof caved in, patches of smoldering wood, the gaping holes where the drakes had barged in, where he’d just been thrown through. Wrathion stared at it, almost vacantly, non-believing. Just an hour ago he’d been content with a full stomach of the best Pandaren delicacies, talked earnestly with his champions, and toned down for the night, excited to study the runestones.

And now he’d been punched, bruised, and otherwise harmed by his surprise elder brother, subjected to be a personal punching bag.

Wrathion scowled. No. He wasn’t going to put up with this anymore.

He was the Black Prince. He was no one’s to push around. His anger grew as he heard Sablemane ascend the steps.

If Sablemane wanted a fight, he was going to get one.

Fueled by his sudden surge of rage the pain of his injuries became dulled, and he forced himself to his feet, pushing the rubble off of his chest and waist in order to stand.

Wrathion went to the entrance, now half as large because of the hole his body had made, his clawed hands curled into fists. Sablemane was at the middle of the steps by then, and stopped, looking slightly surprised that his younger brother was on his feet.

Pushed by his anger, by his pain, by this lonesomeness, Wrathion summoned one of his more powerful draconic spells. It had worked on one grown dragon before, and it could certainly work again!

Through the pain in his chest, his back, in the palm of his hands, he pulled his strength forward, feeling it surge through his shoulders, up into his hands, into his fingertips. He brought up his arms as if to shield himself from the next blow – but from his opens palms a strong, fiery black beam of magic shot forth, intertwining and writing like something living. It hit Sablemane square in the chest.

The elder dragon yelled out angrily, in pain, and tried to move away – but found himself rooted to the spot. Wrathion grinned widely, almost viciously, as Sablemane’s face became affronted with a confused sort of anger.

“Do you like my finest spell?” Wrathion asked, a slight coo to his voice, and curled his fingers to intensify the beam’s power. Sablemane grimaced. “Fahrad did too.”

“It’s passable,” Sablemane growled.

Wrathion splayed out his fingers and forced the dragon to walk backwards down the steps. Sablemane was glowering at him.

“You see, Sablemane, I think you have forgotten who you are dealing with!” He gave a toothy, bloody smile. “Whoever ends up challenging me rather… regrets it.” He curled his hands again to intensify the pressure of the pain on the beam. “Like those unfortunate nether-drakes.”

Sablemane was trying to hold back another grimace; Wrathion could see it in his eyes… all until the pain on the elder dragon’s face seemed to slide away, replaced by a cool calmness, though his pain was still evident in the creases of his eyes. Wrathion found himself annoyed – disappointed, even - at the dragon’s sudden nonchalance. Why wasn’t he roaring, snarling, spurting flame in anger at his immovability, his helplessness, as Fahrad had?

“Who was this Fahrad fellow?”

“He was a black dragon. I killed him.” His voice was smug.

“Did you? Or did someone else do it for you?” Sablemane chuckled at how Wrathion’s lip raised in a scowl. “The latter, then.”

“Oh – details! That’s hardly the point! You are only delayi-”

“This Fahrad. How old was he?”

Wrathion was caught off guard by the question. His grin fell from his face quickly; now he was the one who looked confused. “What?”

“How old. Was he?” Sablemane’s voice suggested a tone akin to trying to explain something simple to a child.

“I don’t see how - ”

“He was not a child of Deathwing, I assume?”

“No, but - ”

“You’re gifted, Black Prince, but only so much gift will get you only so far.” Smoke had begun to encircle the base of Sablemane’s ankles, rising slowly up his form. “An excellent containment beam – and yet.” He smiled and Wrathion noticed his teeth had become sharp, fang-like. “Do you really think - ” he chuckled almost warmly - “You could keep an ex-lieutenant of Deathwing immobile, a dragon who has lived countless generations, has experienced far more than you have, whose skills far surpass your natural born gifts… for that long?”

The smoke enveloped him now. “I do not believe you know who you are dealing with.”

Only too late did Wrathion realize what was going on, and he frantically tried to surge more energy into his magic, despite all of his strength seeming to drain as he pushed himself.

It didn’t matter. The beam broke as the spoke surged upwards, swirling, growing in size…

Until it cleared away as quickly as it had come and an enormous dragon as big as, if not bigger, the Tavern itself stood before him, a crest of regal fins atop his head and his neck, with double black horns flaring out from the back and side of his angled face, whose dark black scales caught and reflected the light of the burning fire like gemstones, whose belly and wings were as red as the flame itself.

Sabellian’s glowing yellow eyes flickered down to Wrathion, who was unabashedly gawking at him.

“Do you see my point, little whelp?”

Wrathion had not expected this. He thought quickly, panicked, not caring for the moment that he was panicked, and backed up a couple of steps. He’d thought, maybe, Sablemane had been lying about being a son of Deathwing, about being his brother, despite the gun trick, despite his skill set – but apparently not. Fahrad had hardly been the size of Sabellian, and – who was Wrathion trying to fool?

He was the Black Prince, surely. But apparently even he had limitations… and admitting it made him uncomfortable.

Where was everyone?! A flash of irrational anger overtook him. Left and Right – useless!

Besides, it didn’t help that the apparently useless draconic containment spell he’d just performed had most of the dredges of energy he’d had left. It didn’t help that a dagger could hardly do any good against the hide of a grown dragon, especially a dragon as powerful as Sabellian, and it didn’t help not much of his spells would be applicable, either – not like he had the strength to cast them, anyway. And it didn’t help that his injuries were screaming at him, that he was about to collapse, that he just wanted to curl up and hide and wish Sabellian away so his bruises and bones could mend.

For the first time in a long, long time, Wrathion was completely without a plan and without the knowledge to make one.

“I’ve had enough playing. It’s time to end this.”

And Sabellian lurched forward, opening his large maw to snatch Wrathion between his teeth.

The Prince stood transfixed for a moment as the jaws descended before he turned, shifted to whelp form and bolted, the pain of his injuries dulling from the rush of adrenaline fueled by fear for his life.

The laugh of Sabellian followed him. “Are you running? Come back here with some dignity!”

Wrathion half-ran, half-flew up the pathway that led up near the sauroks before turning right and scrambling up the small hillside, aiming to hide behind the tallest peak of rock on the Veiled Stair. A boom exploded behind him as Sabellian let loose enormous stream of concentrated fire, as pressurized as a cannonball. Debris went flying, but Wrathion ignored it. The grass began to burn.

Would the entire mountain soon be aflame? There were a good number of trees that could easily catch fire -

BOOM. Another cannonball of fire and Wrathion stumbled, nearly falling on his face but managing to regain his balance with a flap of his wings. He’d made it behind the large peak of rock, at least.

He glanced up, anxiously seeking where he could hide until he had at least some semblance of a plan, but found only smooth rock before him – no niches nor large enough grooves in the slab to burrow into.

Sabellian roared. The ground shook; the dragon was coming after him, rounding the corner of the path to search behind the hill.

Wrathion started scrambling, ignoring the way his fierce injuries were screaming, up the lower levels of the peak, hoping to get leverage before risking a flight up towards the top with his limited amount of strength. Maybe if he could get high enough, above even Sabellian’s eye level, he could -

A large claw grabbed him.

“Too slow, I’m afraid, whelp.”

Wrathion snarled and writhed as best as he could with his broken ribs. “Let me go, you overgrown-!”

“Don’t attempt to insult me in your position. It’s not wise -”

A crossbolt seared into the side of Sabellian’s flank, deep into the flesh.

“AUGH! What on -”

He turned and another became embedded into his shoulder. The dragon snarled.

Wrathion glanced over, surprised – then grinned.

Right stood grimly with a golden crossbow loaded in her hand; her face was raked with deep claw marks, one of her eyes sown shut, and was bleeding heavily from seemingly every area of skin that showed. Dirt and blackish blood that seemed not her own bruised her uniform. How she was still standing Wrathion had no feasible idea – she looked as if she’d just risen from a grave - though the drake that had grabbed her, the youngest one, was nowhere to be seen.

“Humans, as hardy as always,” Sabellian grumbled, though Wrathion saw a faint flicker of concern in his yellow eyes. Concern for who? Himself? Or the vanished drake?

“Stand aside. This is between my brother and -”

Fwoomp. Another bolt in the shoulder and another snarl from Sabellian.

“You had your chance!” Sabellian’s tail whipped about, but Right dodged, barely. As she landed, her eyes caught Wrathion’s with a pointed look which then flickered anxiously over to the Black Market House, which sat quietly, almost serenely, before the flames against the slope.

Of course! Madam Goya often sold vicious weapons there. If he could get a hold of one strong enough to disable or even kill Sabellian…

And oh, what luck. The elder dragon was distracted by the bodyguard.

Wrathion took the shot instantly. As Sabellian opened his mouth to shoot a gust of flame at Right, the Prince reverted to his mortal form and had just enough time to wiggle his arm through Sabellian’s claws and grab his dagger before the dragon had time to react.

He shoved the weapon into his half-brother’s paw, right near the webbing protected least by the hard scales, with such force it sunk in up into the hilt. Sabellian roared in pain and jerked back his claw on instinct, and Wrathion fell from his grip.

“Augh! You little - ” He turned and swung his tail again angrily, and this time Right didn’t have the energy to dodge; she was hit with a mighty crunch and disappeared beyond the slope.

Wrathion had no time to feel for Right. He turned and took off, feeling the last of his strength dissipate as he pushed his flight speed hard.

He landed heavily in the open Auction House; Madam Goya and her exchange guards were gone. The Prince found himself wondering again where everyone was, briefly coming to the conclusion Sabellian must have dispatched them beforehand, before he jumped over the counter where the elderly Pandaren woman usually stood and peered over at the items on the other side.

Success! He grinned widely and shifted into human form, practically falling down, clumsy in his weakened state, into the rack of weapons that had been hidden behind the counter. There was a mechanized, Dwarven looking sort of gun; a bright golden axe, whose sides resembled wings; and another axe, more vicious in looks, with a skull in its center. There was an empty slot on the rack; it must have been where Right’s crossbow replacement had been. Clever of her to think to come here -

He flinched when the image of his guard sailing over the edge flashed back to him – no. He couldn’t think that over now. He tried to forget about the outcome of Left’s fight with the other drake as well. No time. He had no time to care.

Focusing back on reality, Wrathion tried picking up the skull axe and gave up the moment he tried to lift it; even in that little exertion his body hissed.

Wrathion frowned, aggravated with his weakness, before trailing his hand over the golden axe and coming to rest it on the gun. He’d never used one before, but it would have to do.

Just in time, as well. Sabellian seemed to realize where he had gone, for the ground began to shake again as the dragon headed in the Auction House’s direction.

Gingerly Wrathion crawled back over the counter, leaving a trail of blood, and crouched as well as he could - considering his injuries - biting his lower lip and suppressing a whimper at the way his chest seemed to almost creak. He hid behind the wall near the opening to the building and glanced the gun over again. These things didn’t seem too hard to operate; he’d seen Left use hers deftly many times. Wrathion put his hand on the trigger. If he could just get a bullet in the center of Sabellian’s skull – even in the center of an eye - …

“Come forward, Wrathion. Allow yourself a clean death, at least.”

Wrathion scowled but his fingers tensed against the trigger. Sabellian sounded close enough.

He could almost feel his own heart beating. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to summon the handful of energy he had left…

Then leaned out the entrance, aimed, and fired.

Sabellian had practically been a yard away and though the gun bucked back in Wrathion’s hand with a surprisingly powerful recoil, the shot still hit… though not where Wrathion had wanted it to. It grazed across the side of Sabellian’s chest, entering through the flesh of his upper shoulder. The dragon snarled loudly and reared on his hind legs, flame pluming from his mouth in a show of pain.

Wrathion went to shoot again but realized with a panic that the gun had to be reloaded after fumbling awkwardly with the contraption.

“GRAH! THIS ENDS NOW, PRINCE!”

Before Wrathion could dodge or move – as if he had the energy to, anyway – Sabellian shot out a claw and snatched him roughly, lifting off of the ground with a beat of his wings and landing on the lower side of the high peak, which faced the Tavern, Wrathion had earlier thought to hide behind.

The Black Prince’s body thrummed as Sabellian pushed him down into the ground.

“A good last shot. But I believe you’re finished,” the dragon hissed down at him, anger blazing in his eyes now. Wrathion could do nothing but snarl at him weakly.

Sabellian pushed down harder and Wrathion winced, forcing himself to stop the pitiful whine that threatened to escape his throat, as the pressure bent down at his broken ribs and the pain escalated.

“You made a fatal mistake when you declared hostilities on my family,” Sabellian growled, smoke curling from his nostrils, his eyes aflame with anger. His paw crushed down harder and this time Wrathion did cry out. This pain, stacked up on all his previous agony, was unbearable. His entire head rang with it.

“You would have caused…” He gasped hoarsely for breath. “Unspeakable… pain… to the mortal races if - ”

“Oh, yes! I had forgotten how many mortal races visited Outland nowadays!” A growl, deep and sinister. “Do you take me for a fool, or do you take yourself for one? I would have never chanced re-corruption if it were not for you disturbing us!” Another push of the paw and there was a snap as another of Wrathion’s ribs broke. The Prince hissed and writhed against the pain, but had no where to go, the rocks crushing up against his bruised back. He suddenly realized this is what Anduin Wrynn must have felt when he was crushed by the Divine Bell –… only done much, much slower.

“How easily you could have left us alone. Forgotten us. Let us be. We were an entire world away; what harm could we do the mortal races?” Sabellian shook his head, sneering. “But you couldn’t help yourself, could you, little prince? You wanted to be special. The very last of your kind!”

He leaned in close. “Allow me to tell you what you really are. You aren’t special. You aren’t unique. Perhaps the Old Gods have not found you yet, perhaps you’ve escaped our father’s madness – but in the end you are simply the product of a red dragon’s curiosity and nothing more. A living, breathing, mutated experiment. Nefarian tossed specimens like you out daily.”

Wrathion glowered at him, wanting to kill him, wanting to kill him slowly, painfully, disgusted and angered and insulted - … but could do nothing but writhe again against the claw. Sabellian only shook his head.

“Pathetic,” he mumbled, and smoke cascaded off of his enormous form as he shifted into his human form once again. He grabbed Wrathion and set him leaning almost casually against the rock; the Prince was so disabled by pain he could do nothing but whimper at the slight movement of his body and glare at Sablemane with a lidded, glassy look.

Sablemane was silent for a couple moments, merely content to stare at him, before speaking.

“You favor your right hand, correct?”

Wrathion pursed his lips and glowered at him silently.

Sablemane shrugged. “Then I’ll just break both.” He went to grab his left arm.

“My left! I favor my left,” Wrathion lied with an edge of panic in his voice.

Sablemane promptly grabbed his right arm and snapped it as if it were made of paper.

Wrathion screamed. Sablemane looked at him impassively. “I didn’t want another trick from you. This should stem most.”

Wrathion hardly heard him. The edges of his eyes were getting hazy, getting dark. Vaguely he was aware of his head bowing, the echo of a scream… but he was retreating far into himself, far, far away into the comfort of darkness, a darkness that promised a brief respite from the agony.

He didn’t fight it. He accepted it readily. And as it closed around him his last good eyee shut and he thought no more.

—-

Baron Sablemane straightened and brushed the dirt and blood from his robes as Wrathion’s body fell limp into unconsciousness and his eyes fluttered closed.

The fight been more difficult that he had imagined; he’d scoffed and ignored the rumors of the Black Prince’s skill and power, but he understood where the rumors had started now… even though they had been exaggerated. Wrathion fought well for his age, but Sablemane was much more experienced.

Scowling, he rubbed at the thick gash at his shoulder where the whelp’s dagger had sliced him, then quickly assessed the rest of his wounds. The holes left from the bolts in the crossbow burned fiercely, the bullet still dug into his shoulder even more-so, and his entire body ached from Wrathion’s powerful containment beam. His injuries had hurt more than he had let on during the scuffle.

No matter. It was over and done with. His injuries would heal with time… not like Wrathion could say the same about his own.

The dragon turned his head, squinting through the flames. Half of the Veiled Stair seemed to be aflame.

“Nasandria!” He called out, loudly, above the fire’s muted roaring. Hopefully the drake had fared well against the other bodyguard – the one that had not thought it a bright idea to shoot him with a crossbow – and briefly worried again over what had befallen Talsian.

There was a moment’s pause. Had she fallen as well? -…

The smoke above him billowed out and swirled, and the large black drake funneled through the clouds, landing hard on the scorched ground. She was heavily injured, gashes slicing across her neck and legs, but looked at her father readily.

“Did you -? Ah.” Only then she noticed the unconscious body of Wrathion slumped up against the rock. “Is he dead?”

“No.” Sablemane bent his head to ruffle through the slim pocket in his robes, ignoring the incredulous look Nasandria was giving him. “Stop looking at me like that. It doesn’t become you.” He took a small red vial from his pocket, swirling its contents. “The ‘Prince’ is still valuable alive… mostly thorugh his knowledge. I’m curious to interrogate him on the nature of his lack of corruption.”

“I doubt he’ll - ”

“We’ll see.” Sablemane shook his head, took a sip of the healing potion and grimaced at its sour taste, though the ache in his body began to ebb at least a slight bit. “Afterwards, I will dispatch him, once we know how we might be able to return to Azeroth without worry.” He corked the vial. “Where is Talsian?”

“I don’t know. He and the human went near the cliff.”

He shifted into dragon form then, spreading his wings, testing again the pain in his muscles. “Let’s locate him and retreat to a safer distance. The fires will grab attention, if they have not already.” Sabellian glanced down at the still Prince before grabbing him by the shirt and settling his limp body haphazardly on the back of Nasandria. “Carry him, would you? Thank you.” He ignored again the annoyed look on his drake.

The dragon lifted from the burned earth, sailing high above the smoke. Once they found Talsian – dead or alive (Sabellian dearly hoped it was the latter) – they could find a secluded area, perhaps up higher in the mountains.

“Come, Nasandria!” He called down, ignoring the ache in his bones. “And be careful with our little Prince, would you? We don’t want him falling. That would be… unfortunate.”

—-

Anduin Wrynn knew something was wrong when he first saw the smear of smoke coming from the horizon.

“It’s alright,” he assured his white gryphon as calmly as he could, patting the elegant beast’s neck as the animal made a low chortling sound Anduin recognized as nervousness when the smell of the smoke hit them. The Prince had been riding at a leisurely pace from Lion’s Landing for the past hours, stopping only to allow his mount to rest and for him to eat, when the large point of the Veiled Stair appeared in the distance -… and then the smoke coming off of it.

What on earth was happening? Anduin pursed his lips, squinting his eyes hard as if it could help him see clearer. The Veiled Stair was usually quiet, the mists of the mountain almost acting as a muffler to further dissuade violence (though the Exchange Guards and the Blacktalons often were the cause of that), and was altogether a more mysterious place where little happened unless Wrathion willed it so to impress his chosen champions.

So why did it seem to be on fire?

The Path of a Hundred Steps grew closer until Anduin had to angle his gryphon up sharply in order to traverse up the rock face. He glanced down, frowning, as they ascended. At times there was usually a duo of Blacktalon Agents walking the Steps… but the farther he went up, allowing him a larger view of the entire pathway below, the more worried he became. There were no Blacktalons, or even other travelers or traders, for that matter.

Anduin tried to ignore how his throat began to clench, a sign of his own nervousness. Wrathion hardly allowed the Path to be unguarded.

He glanced up as his gryphon screeched, startled, beating her wings backwards as they made it up to the top.

The Veiled Stair was on fire!

“Easy, easy!” Anduin said, struggling to be loud enough over the fire and his gryphon’s own panicked squawking. “It’s alright!”

After a moment, with calm but stern words and a bit of wrestling of the reins, he managed to calm her - at least enough so that he could gently goad her to fly over the flames.

The Prince of Stormwind widened his eyes when the scene unfurled below him as he made it over the highest bits of the inferno. The Tavern – it was nearly destroyed! Its ceiling was half caved in, two of its walls were busted through…

For the seemingly hundredth time Anduin questioned what the hell had happened up here.

There was no logical reason for Wrathion to still be inside. Anduin scanned the earth below, half-frantic in his surprise, and saw nothing, save for some dark red stains on the ground and pocket-holes of upturned dirt that he’d rather not think about.

It was difficult to investigate this high up. He had to land. The higher bit of path leading up to the saurok cave seemed relatively untouched; he directed his gryphon there.

The gryphon seemed happy to comply, as it took them farther from the flames, and she landed earnestly and quickly.

“Good girl,” Anduin murmured, grabbing his cane from the saddle then gingerly slid off, careful to land on his good leg.

It was only then, far from the roar of the fire, he heard someone groan.

He turned, hand going to his belt where his throwing knives were, and stilled. Another groan. It wasn’t malicious. Whoever it was was in pain. His hand fell.

“Where are you?” He called out, looking around the grey of the rock. A gloved hand then lifted from behind a boulder. Anduin, still cautious, leaned slightly so he could see behind -

“Left!”

The orc was half-way hidden behind the boulder, her head bowed, but Anduin would know her anywhere. As quickly as he could with his hobble and limp he clacked his way over, his bad leg almost creaking with the strain of going up the incline.

Anduin knelt down to her, abandoning his cane, and summoned the Light into his hands the moment he took in the bodyguard’s condition. She was bleeding heavily, her shoulder notched through with bone-deep gashes, one of her ankles severely twisted.

Gently, he hovered his hands over her worst wound – the bleeding shoulder – and began to heal her as quickly as possible while he spoke.

“What happened here?”

The orc managed to open her eyes, though her pain was evident, and looked up at him. She went to speak, but coughed hard, blood spittle landing on Anduin’s fine tabard. He ignored it.

“A dragon. Three dragons,” Left murmured, scowling then. “Black dragons.”

Anduin was so alarmed he almost lost his concentration on the Light. “Black dragons?” He repeated dumbly, then shook his head and went back to healing her. “That’s – what did-?”

“From… augh,” she winced, then pushed through, “from Outland. They were after the Prince.” The orc raised a hand and rubbed the blood from the corner of her mouth.

Outland? Anduin frowned thoughtfully. The wound was slowly but surely beginning to stem in blood flow.

There had hardly been any news from Outland in years. He wondered if Wrathion had ever thought to send agents there -… though apparently not.

“Where is Wrathion?” Anduin asked, trying not to sound worried. The Black Prince was egotistical, annoying, smug, manipulative, and often drove Anduin up the wall or otherwise made him completely exasperated or affronted… not to mention Wrathion was an extreme know-it-all. But all the same, he … enjoyed the Black Prince’s company, and the Prince of Stormwind cared dearly for him.

“I wish I knew. The leader and he were battling. I don’t think the outcome was in our mutual friend’s favor.” Her eyes slid to the Tavern and the destroyed hillside. “I should have been protecting him. That’s my job!” She scowled again then, fierce. “But those drakes came for Right and -” She paused, then fixed Anduin with an intense stare. “Have you seen Right?”

Anduin shook his head.

Left narrowed her eyes and went silent.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” the Prince assured quickly, summoning more power to attempt to force the wound to stitch back together. It worked, somewhat, but only so far.

Left grunted.

“They flew off with him. With his Majesty.” Left spoke again after another moment of silence. “Into the mountains.” She gestured the direction with her head, indicating the peaks above of Kun-lai. “Grah! I should have followed - ”

“Left, your injuries are severe. I wouldn’t punish yourself,” Anduin said calmly, then lifted his hands from her shoulder. There was only so much he could do without draining his energy.

He glanced up at where Left had indicated, then. Three black dragons kidnapping the one who’d thought he was the last and had killed the rest of his kin on Azeroth.

Anduin bit his lip. What were they going to do to him?

He furrowed his brows and sighed loudly through his nose. He couldn’t just… sit here and let an ill fate befall his friend. His bad leg throbbed then, as if it were reminding him of what had last happened when he’d gone off against a powerful enemy by himself to stop another bad outcome for the people he cared for…

“Don’t even think about it,” Left said gruffly.

Anduin glanced down at the orc, startled. “I – well, I can’t just abandon him if I know he’s -! ”

Left cut him off with a dismissive motion of her hand and slid herself up into a straighter sitting position. Light, she recovered fast, even with her ankle still twisted. “I’m going with you. You’re going to go up there anyway, I can see it on that bright little face of yours, and I’ve sworn my life to my Prince, so I would have gone too.”

Anduin felt himself both relieved and touched that she hadn’t denied him from going and that she had offered to him (even though he knew well it was out of her duty, and not generosity). But she was gravely injured, and he couldn’t allow her to push herself, even though she was of great willpower and strength. “Left, that’s kind of you, but I - ”

“Don’t tell me ‘no,’ Prince. I answer to the Black Prince, not the Prince of Stormwind. And it’s my job. Besides -” she snorted - “if his Majesty couldn’t defeat one of them, what makes you think you’re going to?” She rolled her eyes as his face fell. “That’s what I thought. Now.” She pointed to her ankle. “Heal me. Then, we can talk.”

Anduin paused for a moment, warring with himself, before finally sighing and giving in. He was no stranger to doing things against other people’s wishes, and admired Left’s determination.

He went to tend to her ankle and pondered thoughtfully, almost absent-minded to the danger he was about to put himself in. Anduin had dealt with black dragon kidnappings before and gotten out.

He was sure he could do it again for a friend.


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing Wrathion thought upon regaining consciousness was how cold it was.

Still in the fog of sleep, he went to wrap his arms around himself, to curl himself up close – until his right arm screamed with pain and he gasped.

And then, all at once, with that slight movement of his arms, his agony seemed to stir and awaken like some angered beast.

His arms went loose at his sides as the pain overtook him. It was a rising tide, a painful current that swept stinging from his right arm up into his chest, his back, his head, down into his waist, his legs. The agony bit at every corner of his skin; it bloomed sharply in the wounds forgotten by sleep. Wrathion’s eyes rang with it.

He groaned. Oh, why couldn’t he have stayed in that blessed, painless darkness?

Wrathion scrunched his eyes up tight until the black behind his eyelids began to shimmer with white dots. If he could just… force himself… to fall back asleep, to escape the pain…

It wasn’t working. The pain had fully shed the numbing agent of sleep and had all-together awoken, fierce and white-hot and biting into his bruises, his broken bones, his cuts and slashes.

Falling back asleep would be impossible.

Wrathion hissed through his teeth.

The cold found him again, as if it had sensed his sudden misery and aimed to amplify it, and the dragon shivered, wincing then at his own shaking – it made his body hurt even more, though the movement was so slight. But he couldn’t stop shaking. It was so cold, even with his draconic heat.

… Where was he, even?

Wrathion slowly opened his eyes – or at least one. His right refused to. Even his left was hard to open, but he managed, at least, to force his eyelid to lift just enough so he could see, even if it was just through a slim slit.

He took in his surroundings in a daze. The pain was constricting his level of awareness, but he forced himself to focus.

Wrathion was in a very barren cave of black and grey rock. Above, dripping from the ceiling, hung great stalagmites where transparent ice had frozen over them like sheathes.

It, too, was quiet, save for the wind that echoed from the unseen mouth of the cave some ways off. There was a lonesomeness to the place, a stillness, and it was cold; the very rocks he was propped up against radiated a chill through his bruised back.

Wrathion stared. How had he gotten here? The last thing he’d recalled was passing out because of his arm – a flash of a memory, the sound of his own bone snapping, and he flinched – but nothing more than that.

“You’re awake. Good.”

The Black Prince turned his head towards the voice, glaring immediately. The bones in his neck seemed to creak and his head throbbed.

Baron Sablemane leaned against the rock on the opposite side to the room, diagonal to the younger dragon. Behind him was the opening to some natural pathway that no doubt led deeper into the mountain.

The green fire at Sablemane’s snake-head shoulders burned eerily in the dark cave and cast a sickly neon glow up along the dragon’s face and reflected against the orange burning of his eyes. Sablemane had his arms crossed; he looked relaxed, nonchalant, but he was frowning.

Wrathion opened his mouth to reply but the words came out as a hissing, dry croak. He scowled weakly; his throat felt like it was sticking together.

“A cutting reply,” Sablemane drawled as he lifted himself from his casual lean and walked closer until he was standing a yard in front of the Black Prince. Wrathion deepened his scowl, then swallowed and rubbed his parched tongue against the top of his mouth in an attempt to get dryness from his throat.

He tried again. “Why am I still alive?” Wrathion’s voice as still a rasp, but vaguely understandable, at least. The sudden, instinctual need for water hummed in the back of his throat.

“Why question it, ‘prince?’ Would you like to be dead?”

From a very, very dark part of his mind the word yes slithered, a yes to stop the seeping, terrible pain - … but it was squashed, silenced, and forgotten instantly.

“No.” He blinked slowly. “I was simply under the impression were going to kill me.”

Sablemane smiled grimly. “What makes you think I’m not going to, still?”

Wrathion glared at him again. Sablemane rolled his eyes.

“Stop. You look pathetic.” The elder dragon rolled his shoulders back. “As for your question – yes, you have excellent observation skills. You’re not dead. Congratulations, I suppose.” He smoothed down his goatee with his thumb; Wrathion wondered if it was a habit of his. “I’ve decided to keep you alive in this… scenic little place… to ask you some questions of my own.”

“… Questions,” Wrathion repeated. He’d come to the conclusion he must have been in Kun-lai; nowhere else was this freezing.

“Yes. Questions,” Sablemane snapped, then relaxed again. “Particularly about your lack of corruption.”

Wrathion laughed at him, though it came out as weak and more of a hissing sound than an actual laugh. His broken ribs protested.

“You may have thought about that before you attacked me. I may have been more… helpful to your plight.”

Sablemane stared at him for a long, quiet moment before replying. “Honestly. Where does your ego start and begin? Is there some sort of unending pool of it in that inflated head of yours? You’ve been beaten down and are now my hostage, and you still believe it’s an excellent idea to talk back to me?” He ran a quick hand over his face and composed himself, sighing in aggravation. “No matter, Black Prince. You will be helpful, one way or another.”

Wrathion felt his confidence waver as it had during the fight; the prince stared at his elder brother wordlessly. He didn’t like Sablemane’s tone of voice.

“I will give you some choices before I have to use… methods I would rather not have to employ.” Sablemane studied him quietly for a moment. “First, I’ll simply ask you what I’d like to know: how did the red dragons take your corruption away? What method did they use?”

Wrathion glared at him defiantly and said nothing. Did Sablemane really think he was going to just… answer anything he wanted after the elder dragon had crushed him into the dirt with blood and fire and shamed him?

“I’d rather not share. You said yourself Outland… ‘cured’ it for you. Perhaps you should just run back home, hm?”

Sablemane growled at him; his eyes glowed hot orange for a moment before flaring down again. “Very well. Nasandria!”

The drake, in her mortal form, appeared from the pathway Sablemane had been standing near beforehand. At her belt hung ebony daggers with ruby hilts.

“Start the cuts off light – and do be mindful of his previous injuries. Stay away from them at first, but if he still thinks it a wise idea to stay silent, I will take over.” His eyes were fixated coolly on the younger dragon. “And then I’m sure he’ll speak for us then. But, as I said, I like giving options.”

Nasandria pulled back her thick black hair and tied it into a bun, blowing a free strand from her face. She pulled a dagger from her belt and approached Wrathion, who sunk back deeper into the wall in a pathetic attempt to get away from her. Oh. Perhaps this was a bad idea. He eyed the sharpened dagger as his previous pain throbbed in every muscle in his body, and for a desperate moment he opened his mouth to stumble out the words “wait, no, stop, I’ll tell you!” -… but he set his eyes coldly, even though his body was shaking. He pretended it was just from the cold right before the dagger set against his jaw and sliced.

—-

Anduin leaned against his cane and sighed.

The fires of the Veiled Stair had finally gone out as the night had descended, leaving behind a wake of scorched earth, thick smoke, and charred husks of the white trees that had dotted the mountain; the only surviving white oak remained near the Black Market Auction House, which sat relatively untouched compared to the rest of its burnt surroundings, save for large claw marks raked across its side.

The Tavern was in the worst shape. It was wholly inhabitable; as Left and Anduin had sat talking near the saurok cave, waiting out the fires (Anduin had convinced her to, for the smoke would have killed them more quickly than the flames they would have tried to dodge), more of the inn’s roof had collapsed inward from the slow smoldering.

Anduin turned his head to glance back at it now as he stood near the burnt corpse of the largest tree in front of the Tavern, and frowned. Left had given him simple facts about the situation, and, as was usual with the Blacktalons, had kept most information back despite the prince’s frustration. All he was told was that the black dragons who had come through the Dark Portal were led by one of Deathwing’s eldest sons, and had come to kill Wrathion.

“Why?” Anduin had pressed after healing Left’s ankle. “They were from Outland. I don’t understand how they could have found out about Wrathion; it doesn’t make sense. There hasn’t been … any communication through the two worlds in a long time, or so I’ve been told. What did Wrathion do?”

Left had shrugged. “I can’t tell you everything, Prince.” And no amount of pestering and careful questions Anduin did or asked would make her open up, so he’d let it go – for the time being.

The prince furrowed his brows. Something was not quite right here…

Anduin shook his head then and sighed, his face relaxing. He tried not to worry about that now; what he should be worrying about was the fact that Wrathion had not been killed, but kidnapped, and by a son of Deathwing no less.

He turned his head when he heard footsteps crunching against the brittle, burnt grass. Left was coming back from searching near the Auction House. She looked aggravated.

“Ridiculous,” she murmured, and walked passed the Prince, who immediately followed her.

“I didn’t find anyone. Did you?” Anduin asked, trying as best as he could to keep up with her all while trying not to stumble over the uneven terrain. The first thing Left had set out to do, when the fires had died, was to search for Right and the rest of the Blacktalons who usually guarded the mountain, all of whom had seemingly disappeared, for back-up. She’d asked Anduin to search near the Tavern as she went to go near the Auction House.

Left, however, didn’t appear successful in her hunt if her angered expression was to be any hint. “If I had, don’t you think they would be with me, Prince? No. I didn’t find anyone. The only thing valuable I found was this” - she hoisted a new golden crossbow Anduin hadn’t noticed her carrying - “and even then its ammunition is low.”

“Oh,” Anduin said, lamely. His leg was starting to ache from trying to keep up at Left’s pace. “We could search farther down the mountain,” he added, trying to be helpful. “I’m sure that -”

Left turned to face him so quickly the prince startled, stumbling mid-step. The orc grabbed him by the shoulders and proceeded to guide him to walk backwards until they were near the Tavern again and then with a stern shove she forced him to sit down on the steps.

“You’re going to stay here and wait for me until I return. No, there will be no arguing, and don’t look so insulted. If you’re really that intent on finding his Majesty then you can at least move out of my way until we leave; there’s no time for me to waste and I can’t afford to slow down for an injured Prince who’s following me around like a lost puppy. Besides - ” she shrugged - “you should save your strength.”

Anduin bit the inside of his cheek to stop the immediate retort that threatened to escape from him; he didn’t want to make the bodyguard more annoyed than she already was. He supposed she was right about saving his strength… but he wanted so badly to help. The two stared at each other challengingly for a moment before Anduin relented and sagged his shoulders.

“Alright. I’ll wait here. But please be careful.”

Left grunted noncommittally, hoisted the crossbow across her shoulder and headed down to the Path of a Hundred Steps, disappearing beneath the cliff.

Anduin quietly watched her go before looking out over the Veiled Stair as he sat. It was so vacant and quiet, as if the fires had burned away any semblance of time as well as most of the foliage. It unnerved him. Certainly the mountain was peaceful before, but there was always some sense of life in the Tavern or the Auction House on the other side of the mountain plane. Now it all seemed… lifeless, the only sound the faint, ghost-like wind streaming down from the higher peaks of Kun-lai, bringing colder and colder air as the night became blacker and blacker, which made Anduin shake and his blond hair ruffle.

Leaning back against the face of the step behind him, he pulled his arms around himself to contain his heat, wishing he had brought, at the very least, his royal blue overcoat to stem against the mountain cold… though, then again, he hadn’t expected to need it when he’d left from Lion’s Landing to visit the Black Prince, who had no shortage of warmth in the Tavern.

His throat constricted, not for the first time, with worry. It’d been some time since the black dragons had come; would he even find Wrathion alive?

Anduin shook his head and closed his eyes, attempting to relax his anxious thoughts; while it was freezing, at least the cold air allowed his mind to focus.

When dealing with Onyxia, the broodmother had been brought down with force and magic. Anduin supposed that the same strategy was not going to work with a prince who could hardly lift a shield and with the quickness but delicateness of rogues.

His hand drifted down to where he hid his throwing knives – right underneath his tabard, hanging from the inside of his belt. Rogues used throwing knives, didn’t they?

Anduin glanced up at the charred husk of the tree in front of him. He hadn’t found the time to practice, much less use these, in some time. If he didn’t have a chance to use the Light for its “flashiness” in the dark…

He grabbed a knife and aimed at the center of the tree – and threw. His aim was somewhat off, but the knife stuck true. Anduin smiled, pleased, and continued to distract himself by practicing with the knives until he finally heard steps coming back up from the Path.

He looked over and there was Left – alone.

He stood up, grabbing his cane. “Did you-?”

“No Right.”

Anduin’s heart sank, but he pressed on. “What about other agents?”

Left glanced at him. “Unconscious. There’s about five of them huddled up, hidden in a crevice on the lower edges of the Path. The elder dragon must have grabbed them before he attacked his Majesty.” She was scowling.

Anduin gripped his cane tighter. “If they’re not dead, I can heal them. If you could lead the way-”

She cut him off by putting her hand up. “You can’t heal them. They’re under some sort of spell.” The orc tapped her forehead. “I tried to wake them, but their eyes are open. Cloudy, vacant. I know draconic magic when I see it.”

Left moved passed him and headed towards the Black Market House. Anduin hesitated, mindful of the “lost puppy” comment she’d said earlier. He dug his knives from the tree, sheathed them, then followed at a distance.

“If I just worked with them, I may be able to get them back on their feet,” Anduin said carefully.

“Mm.” They’d made it to the Auction House. Left went up to the two large Pandaren lanterns situated on either side of the dark building and lit them, a warm but powerful glow emanating from the glass. Anduin watched – he made sure to stand far away enough so Left wouldn’t run into him as the orc turned from lighting and went behind the counter. Something on the counter distracted him. There was a large trail of smeared blood running up and over it.

The prince eyed it for a moment, biting down on his lower lip, then looked away quickly.

“As for your ‘healing offer,’ Prince, I’ve weighed the option. But time is more essential than back-up. You could spend hours with each agent and still not get them fully aware. I’d rather not take the risk of arriving too late for his Majesty.”

“What about Right?”

Left paused in front of a large mahogany cupboard, then shook her head. “That would take even more time. I don’t even know where she is.”

She opened the cupboard. It was full of rolled parchment, neatly stacked upon one another. Left made a pleased noise, grabbed one of the scrolls, then turned back to the human and unrolled it flat against the counter.

It was a large map detailing Kun-lai Summit. The details were impressive: every peak was named, every road paved out with ink, and caves were carefully labeled.

“I see why Wrathion has his Watchers everywhere,” Anduin said with an appreciative smile, after realizing that the map was Blacktalon-made once he saw the claw-mark symbol at the edge of the parchment. “Why do you keep them in here, instead of the Tavern?”

“The Tavern is too obvious a place for unwanted eyes to find them,” Left murmured as she leaned over the map, moving it slightly so more of the lantern-light could spill out over it. Her gloved hand trailed gingerly over the peaks that were closest to the Veiled Stair.

“The dragons will logically find some sort of hide-away from the snow. His Majesty hates the cold. I’m sure the other black dragons do as well.” She tapped her fingers against the map. “And ‘Sablemane’ will no doubt need somewhere to hide from us. He knows he has something valuable.”

“The caves in Kun-lai are numerous, but if we can travel quickly” - she circled some of the cave names - “we’ll find them.”

“Do you think we should find some of the Blacktalons in Kun-lai?” Anduin asked.

“There’s no time for that.”

The prince nodded. It would only be Left and him, then. His heart quickened. He hoped they’d be enough for Wrathion.

“We leave immediately. We’re wasting time as is.” She looked up, then narrowed her eyes.

“You can’t wear that.”

“… What?”

The bodyguard gestured impatiently to Anduin’s bright white and golden garb. “That. You can’t wear that. You’ll shine like a beacon with all of that paleness and I nor the Prince can afford even the smallest of distractions.”

Anduin awkwardly pulled at his golden sash; the brightness of the outfit hadn’t even crossed his mind. “These are all the clothes I have with me. I -… certainly I might be able to hide behind -?”

Left grunted and pushed passed him, nearly knocking him over. He snatched onto the counter for balance and turned to see the guard disappear behind another section of the Auction House. There was the loud groaning of furniture being moved and a creak before some hurried shuffling. Anduin frowned and leaned his body to try to get a better view inside; what was she -?

The orc appeared again with a black bundle in her hands and walked with purpose back to him. She held it out to Anduin, who made sure to balance on his good leg before letting go of the counter, and took it from her curiously.

“These should fit. Get dressed and hurry up. I’ll be waiting on you, Prince.” Left left him then, heading back towards the Tavern.

Anduin looked down at the bundle in his arms. It was obviously an outfit; he lifted a piece from the pile and looked it over, tilting his head, as he took in what was a tunic of thick black leather. It looked just like -

The prince’s eyes widened. He realized what he was holding.

Left had given him a Blacktalon outfit to wear.

—-

“Must you really cut so infuriatingly small?!”

Nasandria glanced up at him, raised a brow, then finished the cut she had been making across his forearm.

Up along Wrathion’s neck, jaw, and left arm (Nasandria had ignored his broken right), were thin, innumerable cuts. The drake had torn his gauntlet off, as well as loosened his scaled tabard to get to the fleshier parts of his neck and chest, to get to his skin. The fresh wounds zigzagged and overlapped at one another, and the blood beaded at the top of the skin but did not run down.

But the cuts Wrathion had been expecting – fierce, thick, deep into the flesh – were instead painful, stinging, near paper-cut slashes. It was annoying, at first, and not that agonizing compared to the rest of the pain his body was in from the fight-… but the continual accumulation of the damn things was really starting to become agonizing. What was worse was how it made all of his other wounds feel more painful than they had prior, as if the tiny cuts Nasandria was carefully giving him were a sharp acid, a catalyst, that steadily ramped up his body’s overall hurt.

It was a technique he was not familiar with – and he wished he hadn’t come to know it when he was on the other end of the blade.

“If you’d like for her to stop, then you just need to stop being stubborn and answer my questions,” Sablemane sighed. He was leaning against the wall again, his arms crossed, eyeing Wrathion with boredom.

The Black Prince glared at him. “No, thank you.”

“May I ask you this, then, at least: why not?” He made an impatient gesture with his hand to Nasandria. The drake lifted her dagger from Wrathion’s palm and stood up. The Prince was glad for the moment’s respite… his entire body throbbed.

“What could you possibly hope to gain by keeping something like this from me?” Sablemane continued with a scowl.

Despite his pain, his weakness, Wrathion managed a wobbly smirk. “I don’t think… any of you… are worthy to be uncorrupted as I am.”

“A fancy way of saying that I’ve hurt your feelings by beating you and you’re pouting.” Sablemane was glowering at him. Wrathion’s smirk dissolved into a scowl. “I tire of this insistent defiance and of this torture. I’m going to attempt to reason with you.”

Wrathion sighed loudly through his nose, but said nothing. He was curious. Oh, he hoped Sablemane would end up begging him for the key to the secret of uncorruption by the end of this. How delicious that would be…

… Besides, as long as Sablemane was speaking to him, the torture would stop.

The elder dragon walked close to Wrathion and looked down at him; his arms were still crossed. “I’ve told you before that going to Outland disconnected my mind from the Old Gods’ taint. Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant: my brood in Blade’s Edge is just as sane as you are, and as I am… and as a son of Deathwing and Sinestra yourself, you’d be foolish not -”

“Sinestra was not my mother.”

Sablemane looked at him sharply, then squinted his eyes. “That’s impossible. Of course she was.”

“No. My mother was a dragon named Nyxondra.” The Prince was loath to speak of her – he never brought the subject up – and his voice’s hesitance showed it.

Sablemane was looking at him queerly now; his confusion showed in the creases of his eyes, the slight frown of his lips.

“You’re no son of Deathwing if Sinestra wasn’t your mother, then, little prince,” Sablemane said after a moment of silence.

Wrathion drew himself up, affronted. His broken ribs pulsed painfully at the movement. “Deathwing was my father.”

“You idiot. Did you ever see the Aspect?”

“No.”

“I see. You’re rather fortunate; it wasn’t a very… inspiring sight.” He scratched at his jaw. “Even then, surely you’re aware he was a swirling chaotic mass of lava and fire contained by metal plates? That he was more senseless element than dragon?” His hand dropped from his face, and he leaned forward a bit, glaring. “How easily do you think females of our kind, or any kind of dragon, could mate with him if he was more fire than flesh?”

Wrathion stared at him vacantly.

“My mother – Sinestra – was the only unlucky mate who survived after our father lost himself to the Old Gods. Do you see what I’m trying to tell you? Nefarian, Onyxia, myself – and countless others that are dead and forgotten now – were from their clutch. But you – you’re not a son of Deathwing if you weren’t Sinestra’s egg. It’s impossible. No common, low-ranking broodmother could have possibly survived him.”

Wrathion growled low in his throat. His left hand flexed against the rock floor with an unpleasant cutting sound as his ungloved claws dug into the earth.

Sablemane tilted his head. He seemed confused at Wrathion’s reaction – and then he raised a brow. “Ah. I don’t mean to insult you or your mother. How odd. Only mortals seem to be … flustered when their mothers are insulted. Though -” Sablemane chuckled “- you seem to stay in your mortal form amongst mortals so much you may have simply… adopted their mindset.” He paused, then gave Wrathion a critical look. “… How much do you know about dragon culture? You’ve been alone, haven’t you? Besides that Fahrad fellow – a pity. No matter. This is a waste of a conversation.”

Wrathion’s claws were scratched deep into the rock floor now. Not for the first time he wanted to tear them into Sablemane’s throat, to make him bleed and hurt.

But he couldn’t. Instead he was at this dragon’s mercy, broken, beaten, bruised, and bleeding. And he hated himself for it.

What he hated worse was that Sablemane was right.

Oh, he pretended to know all there was about dragons, but Fahrad had been the only dragon he’d ever known, and even then, he had not learned much from the rogue before killing him. Wrathion could recall the voice of Rheastrasza, his creator; the other red dragons who experimented more cruelly on his egg than Rhea ever had; the voice of his mother in her rare moments of wakefulness as the spell wore off of her.

But they were only voices. Memories. He had learned nothing about … dragons from them.

Sablemane rubbed at the bridge of his nose, grumbled something under his breath, and dropped his hand to his side.

“I’ll continue with what I was going to say before I was rudely interrupted.” He shot Wrathion an annoyed look. “Despite the fact you may not be a son of Deathwing, we still have something in common. I’m sure you fear the Old Gods finding you, still.”

Wrathion said nothing. His fiercely aching ribs thanked him.

“Mm. Now you lose the back-talk. Good.” Sablemane sighed loudly. “If I must explain myself, ‘Black Prince,’ I myself am… wary of the Old Gods. What a surprise.” His voice was flat. The wind howled outside, far-away and lonely. “My entire existence on this planet was one ruled by madness. I had no sense of self. My one purpose was to destroy the world our flight had help mold generations before, after the Titans left us with the gift of the earth. My brothers and sisters – all of us – we were servants. Oh, we may have been clever. Manipulative. Nefarian and Onyxia come to mind, do they not? Even before Deathwing himself lost all sense, he was even more cunning than his eldest son.

“But as … egotistical as we were -” he gave Wrathion a lingering look “- we were nothing but servants. As I said. Blood and fire and destruction. All of… that.” He scoffed, and curled a lip in disgust. “And I was as worse as them all.” For half-a-heartbeat, there was … regret in Sablemane’s eyes-… but it disappeared instantly. “I helped the orcs of the first Horde find this awful little bauble for Ner’zhul, then transported them to Menethil Harbor to wreak havoc. The lovely little scepter belonged to Sargeras.” He smirked without humor as Wrathion’s eyes flashed. “Yes. Ner’zhul, the first Lich King and Sargeras the Fallen Titan. I’m not proud of what I did - but, oh, my father and the Old Gods demanded it of me. And I did it with honor at the time.” He crossed his arms, and his right hand tapped against his left’s sleeve.

“Only when I settled into Blade’s Edge, into Outland, when the taint left me, did I realize what I’d done – what kind of monster I was. What sort of horrors that creature did with that scepter I do not wish to know – and even before that bauble I killed so many mortals, so many innocents, just to see them scream. To appease my masters - those blasted whispers in my head.”

Sablemane was looking at him coolly now, without emotion, his eyes half-lidded. He said nothing for a time, then said, flatly: “Do you understand why I don’t wish for that to overtake me again?”

Wrathion was silent. For once, words didn’t come to him immediately.

Of course he would never admit – not to anyone, not even to himself – that he feared the Old Gods as fiercely as Sablemane seemed to.

He was no one’s… servant. The Reds had tried to contain him, to make him their experiment, their pet – but he’d escaped that fate. He was his own master. The deep, terrible fear that something hidden beneath the crust and earth could seep into the darkest corners of his mind and whisper him into insanity, into servitude, was bone deep.

But he would never admit to being afraid.

And so Wrathion blinked slowly, his own face as blank as Sablemane’s, then narrowed his eyes.

He clucked his tongue once. “How unfortunate. You know, maybe I will tell you a secret!” Despite his dry rasp, Wrathion’s voice still held the mocking lilt.

“Here: return to Outland and hide. There is nothing for you or your brood here. You were born monsters and you will always be monsters.”

Sablemane growled and his eyes flared and Wrathion knew he’d made a very bad mistake.

The elder dragon approached, leaned down, and grabbed Wrathion’s broken right arm tightly. Despite himself the Black Prince made an undignified whine; his vision was dotted with sharp white from the sudden, intensified pain.

“You think me a monster, whelp?” Sablemane snarled. “Very well. Then I’ll act the part.” Smoke curled out from his lips. “You have left me no other choice.”

Sablemane began to twist. The pain built into unseen magnitudes and Wrathion made a strangled cry as his broken bone was agonizingly twisted around.

Sablemane didn’t stop. He kept twisting it. The Black Prince dug his heels into the rock and slid his legs outward, and he yelled out loudly in agony. His whole vision was pain. His arm felt like it was burning, tossed into acid.

And it wasn’t stopping.

“Stop!” Wrathion choked out. “STOP! Please!” For the moment he didn’t care that he felt tears slide from the corners of his eyes, even his swollen right – he’d never cried, never – he just wanted the pain to be gone, please, please, he just wanted it to stop -

“All you have to do is tell me, Prince,” Sablemane said quietly. His grip on Wrathion’s arm tightened and the Black Prince whined.

The pain shook down all his walls of defiance and poise he’d so carefully built. Oh, he just wanted for it to stop -

“Titans! The Titans! She – they found technology – in – in the Badlands,” Wrathion managed to whimper.

Sablemane stopped twisting; his grip loosened. “What kind of technology? That’s a vague answer. The Titans used many things. And who is this ‘she’? The red dragon?”

“I -” Wrathion’s eyes were swimming with sparks. Dark clouded at the edge of his vision. He glanced down at his arm and felt sick – it was nearly turned all the way around. And – and -

“Don’t you dare fall unconscious!” Sablemane’s grip tightened once again and Wrathion bared his teeth in agony.

“Rhea – she – there was…” He couldn’t even think straight. “I don’t – I don’t quite… My mother….”

It was too much. He couldn’t see anymore. His shoulders drooped and Wrathion plunged into the dark for the second time.

—-

Sabellian grabbed the freshly killed goat carcass with his claws and tore into its hide appreciatively.

The blood was a lovely mellow taste, and his starved belly appreciated it. He swallowed a large chunk of flesh from the shoulder as Nasandria, who sat across from him on the snowy slope, picked at the smaller kid.

“You seem worried,” Sabellian rumbled, then snapped the goat’s ribcage in two to get at the tough but nutritious heart.

The drake looked up at him. “He’s giving us so little that I’m not sure if it’s even worth the time to keep him alive.”

Sabellian swallowed the heart and harrumphed. “Yes, the whelp has a strong will. But he’s beginning to break; we’ve seen that much. Take heart in that, will you? Now, eat your food or I will.” He went back to devouring the goat in front of him.

“But how long will that take for us to break him? Talsian is growing worse and worse with each hour.”

The great dragon paused, taking the moment to wipe the dripping blood from his snout. She did speak the truth, as much as he wished it were false. The young drake had been found near-dead along the cliff, suffering from severe wounds from his neck and face, and was so weak he’d had to be carried in his mortal form to the cave. They’d set him deep inside, as far away from the cold as possible, but even then black dragons were no experts at healing, not like the mortal priests, paladins, or shamans, and their fire did not cauterize easily like the red dragons’ was famed for. Talsian had fallen in a semi-unconscious state, and had begun mumbling incoherently to himself, refusing to respond.

Sabellian was well aware that if they did not leave soon his drake would die, and he did not quite like the way he was… murmuringto himself. It was unnerving.

And yet they could not leave, not yet. Not when Wrathion had information on his uncorrupted state. Sabellian glanced out at the snowy mountains that surrounded them. Nasandria had less of a connection to this world than he did, having grown up in the barrenness of Blade’s Edge Mountains. He had been as corrupted as his brothers and sisters for his time on this planet, a slave to his dark masters who forced him to think of this land as something to be destroyed and decimated, but his viewpoint had changed during his escape from the Old Gods in Blade’s Edge; compared to the sheer rock faces, the sheer vacancy of Blade’s Edge itself, Azeroth was full of life. He had found himself missing its beauty, a beauty he hardly had the chance to admire thanks to his corruption so early in his life.

There was also the problem of Outland falling apart. When would the day come when the last pocket of black dragons’ home simply drift away in pieces? He had not shared this worry with Wrathion – he’d never quite gotten the chance to before Sabellian had lost his temper – but it didn’t matter. The whelp wouldn’t have cared.

The choice was simple: if there was a chance he could return to Azeroth full-time with his brood without fear of the Old Gods, he would gladly take it.

And now that Wrathion was a threat taken care of – no one would hurt his family any longer – the whelp could supply them with information. He didn’t enjoy torture… but he had to do what he needed to do.

“Talsian can hold for some time longer.” Sabellian cracked the goat’s skull with his scaled palm. “Don’t look at me with such open disdain, drake! I am making the right choice.” There was a quiet hiss and he looked over at his flank; snow had begun to fall and melt against his super-heated scales. He curled a lip, snorted, then lifted to his feet. “I abhor the cold.” The dragon grabbed the rest of the goat’s body and slunk back into the darkness of the cave. “Stand guard outside, Nasandria.” He sounded aggravated; the conversation had annoyed him.

The shrieking of the freezing winds that had begun to pick up with the snow outside echoed mutely throughout the cavern – but at least he was inside away from them.

The cave was an excellent find. It had been difficult to find one farther into the mountains and deep enough into the heart of the rock to hide from unwanted eyes, but when the party had stumbled upon this one, Sabellian had been immensely pleased. Not only was the entrance large enough to fit his dragon form through, but the cavern split off into passageways and smaller caverns.

He snapped off a rib and a haunch from the goat after shifting into his mortal form (while the entrance was large enough to accommodate his dragon form, the ceiling receded in height, and forced him to shift), and made his way back into the deeper sections of the cave to the cavern they were holding the Black Prince. The young dragon looked unconscious until his good eye fluttered open and fixated vacantly on Sablemane. It had been some time since Sablemane had been forced to twist the Prince’s arm – this was the first time he’d awoken.

Still frustrated with the conversation with his drake, Sablemane practically threw the rib at the whelp.

It hit him in the thigh. Wrathion flinched and stared at it.

“I’m playing the generous host. That’s all you’re getting – if you can even pick it up.” Sablemane turned in the direction of the other cavern and walked. He did not want to deal with that nuisance now. He’d let Wrathion rest before continuing; the elder dragon did not want him passing out again.

Weaving through the twisting caverns, mindful of the lower stalagmites that threatened to poke at his scalp and shoulders, he made his way to the separate chamber. The raw goat haunch was still in his hand.

The slim path yawned open to reveal a smaller circular cavern. On the farthest end, Talsian was curled up, shaking and twitching. His tongue was lolled out; his mouth was curled in a silent snarl. Even from across the room Sablemane could hear him muttering.

He despised the muttering. Something about it made his skin crawl.

Nonetheless, Sablemane approached.

Kneeling down, he put his hand on Talsian’s neck while he set the bloody haunch near his jaws; a pool of drool had accumulated from the drake’s open mouth. Sablemane ignored that. What he focused on were the closing wounds along Talsian’s neck. They had bled profusely hour after hour – Sablemane had thought he would have simply bled out - but it seemed that the healing process had begun; crusted, dried blood surrounded the thick cuts. It was some goods news, despite Talsian’s continuous unconscious state.

“I find it doubtful you’ll be responsive.” Sablemane said, after a moment of inspection. “Though fresh blood might rise you from your stupor.” He paused, waiting for some movement, for some sort of action. But Talsian continued to twitch and whisper nonsense. Grumbling, Sablemane straightened up -

And Talsian’s eyes shot open.

They locked on Sablemane. Sablemane stared back, alarmed.

The eyes looking at him were glassy and vacant, the pupils dilated into such small slivers they almost disappeared amongst the yellow. The gaze was not a conscious one – yet even then the eyes followed Sablemane as he took a step back.

And Talsian was still mumbling.

Sablemane paused, then nudged the drake’s snout with his foot. Talsian did not respond but only continued to chatter and stare.

For a moment, Sablemane did nothing. He simply stared, scratching idly at the side of his goatee…

… For the vacant look was so eerily reminiscent of the darker parts of his life Sablemane wished he had not been there to see it.

Sablemane forced down his disturbed thoughts. “Perhaps blood is not the best thing to give you,” he murmured, then set the meat aflame to char and burn. Talsian let out of breathy hiss and shuddered – but otherwise he did not uncurl himself from his coil.

Quietly, Sablemane turned and left the cavern. He needed to see Nasandria about finding some… chains.

The silent muttering of Talsian followed him, echoing about the cave like a thousand senseless ghosts.

—-

Anduin had forgotten how cold Kun-lai Summit was.

He held on tight to Left as she guided his white gryphon through the first peaks of the Summit. Snow had begun to fall as they had started their ascent from the Veiled Stair up into Kun-lai’s higher mountains, and the wind had become harsher the higher they climbed. It hissed against Anduin’s ears and sheered his bangs back from his face; his eyes watered.

At least his new outfit was warmer than his cloth garb. Anduin was wearing the customary Blacktalon Agent uniform, made of handsome black leather, that covered most every inch of him. It kept the cold out well enough, and as Left had put it, “would hide his pale skin in the dark so he wouldn’t look like a risen ancestor.”

The blond also wore a mask that covered the lower half of his face – his blond hair and blue eyes were the only features that were really shown in his new clothes - and he was grateful for it. His eyes were nearly streaming with tears from the wind now, and he probably couldn’t bear more of the cold air whipping in his face if the mask had not been there.

“The first caves will be upon us soon. As I said, Prince, you will stay on your animal while I inspect the cave. If you step off the gryphon I’ll not be responsible for your corpse being carried off by a yeti or summit tiger!” Left’s voice was carried off by the wind – she had to yell. But even then Anduin could hear the warning in her tone as well as her words.

Yet he was no stranger to Kun-lai; climbing up the mountains to get to the Temple of the White Tiger had been difficult, even with the friendly party of monks that had been making the same journey looking out for the strange foreigner.

Even so, yetis and tigers were one thing; dragons were another.

Anduin simply nodded, though Left couldn’t see him.

Another powerful gust of wind blew passed, and instinctually Anduin’s arms, which were wrapped tightly around Left’s waist so he wouldn’t fall off the back of the gryphon, tightened around her. Left grunted, annoyed, and Anduin loosened his grip instantly. He felt his face go hot. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, though it was muted by his mask and the wind.

Left seemed to not hear him or had ignored him. The peaks she had pointed out were upon them now; she turned the white gryphon carefully, drifting them through the large opening between two of the mountains. The snow fell harder.

They flew until Left turned sharply when a large peak jutted suddenly in front of them as they had rounded about what looked to be a huge mound of an avalanche. The gryphon screeched, startled, then dived as the orc guided her masterfully – Anduin was impressed that the bodyguard could handle the animal nearly as well as he could - around the peak and then with a jump and a jostle of wings landed her upon a cliff. Only then did Anduin realize they had reached one of the caves on the map.

“You can let go now,” Left grumbled, and the prince did so, embarrassed. The orc slid from the mount and the snow crunched beneath her feet. With an impatient motion she handed the reins to the blonde; Anduin curled his black gloved hands around them tightly and tried not to shiver in front of her.

“Remember what I warned you,” Left said, then lifted the golden crossbow from her back. The ammunition had been reloaded from the supplies in the Auction House.

Anduin nodded. Left fixed him with a hard look before she turned and walked in the direction of the cave. Soon, she disappeared around the side, and Anduin was alone in the snowy dark.

He closed his eyes, willing out the cold. Snow kept falling in his hair and melting, dripping chill onto his forehead. Perhaps if he could imagine somewhere nice and warm, like his plush bed in Stormwind, or the mugginess of Krasarang Wilds, or across from Wrathion during a game in the Tavern in the Mists…

He wasn’t sure how long he was sitting there, the gryphon idling underneath him, until something slapped his thigh. Anduin jumped in his seat, startled, then winced at his bad leg cramped from the sudden movement.

“Did you really close your eyes?”

Anduin deflated. Left was squinting up at him.

“I – it was only for a moment - ”

The orc scoffed and hopped nimbly back on the mount, taking the reins from the prince’s hands. “A single moment of your defenses down can get you killed.” She guided the gryphon towards the side of the cliff.

The blonde put his arms around her again, as light as he could. “I know. I’m sorry.” It came out almost automatically, mechanically. The prince found himself wondering how many times he’d said those words as he watched the gryphon’s talons grip along the edge of the rock - and then felt his stomach grow sour and clench when he saw the huge abyss below them, sheer faces of jutting rock on either side. He could not see the ground. Anduin looked away. “’I suppose this wasn’t the cave?”

“No.” Left spurred the beast forward and they lurched from the cliff. “We’ll try another.”

It was slow-going. After the first empty cave, they jumped from peak to peak, and steadily they fell into a rotation: Left would land, would leave, would sneak, and come back unsuccessful while Anduin sat there looking around (or at least trying to – the snow and the night sky made things hard to see) and watching the gryphon, trying not to feel totally useless.

The night was late when they landed on a mountain cliff. They were deep into the Kun-lai mountains by now, and Anduin had decided he truly hated the cold when Left hopped off the gryphon for what felt like the hundredth time.

“May I go with you this time?” Anduin asked as Left went to go inspect the cave without a word. She glanced at him. He really was beginning to feel useless – and besides, a walk might help stretch his tingling legs, which were both cramping from sitting on the saddle for so long. Maybe if she just let him go once -

“No. You’ll be a distraction.”

The blonde furrowed his brows but said nothing. The orc turned and disappeared into the open maw of the cave.

He looked around. Well, he thought, at least he could get down and walk while Left was preoccupied.

Anduin looped the reins over the gryphon’s head then slid carefully from her back, grabbing his cane. He stretched out, and the relief was instantaneous. Anduin was used to sitting for a long time – he shuddered to remember the hour-long noble meetings and discussions back in the Keep – but the cold was affecting his muscles badly.

Growing up in Stormwind had not prepared him for this night-weather, despite having visited Kun-lai before. Perhaps it was worse because he was flying, where the wind was fiercer and the snows colder – he wasn’t quite sure.

Left was taking a long time with this cave. Anduin grabbed the reins of the gryphon and walked to the other side of the cliff, both hands full with the cane and the lead. It was still cold, but the landscape was beautiful. The snow had more or less stopped falling, only drifting down from the sky in small, harmless flurries. He could finally see the mountain.

Anduin got to the side of the cliff, away from the cave Left had investigated, and simply admired the scenery that yawned out below him. The moon, near-full, was casting an icy glow along the snowy peaks as it lowered closer to the horizon as the night threatened to end. It almost seemed to shine. The prince sighed and leaned on his cane, the seeping pit of frustration that had begun to accumulate in his gut slowly slinking away at the scenery. Really, it was -

A large shape flew across his vision. Anduin seized and went shock-still and he felt the gryphon behind him do the same.

The shape was black , shapeless, featureless– until it pivoted slightly and the light shined just the right way over its body, over its leathery wings -

Anduin widened his eyes. It was a large black drake.

He ducked behind the rock immediately, pulling his mount along with him with a sharp tug. His heart hammered. For a moment, Anduin did nothing, only stayed quiet and hidden. The drake surely hadn’t seen him… surely.

But one wrong move on his part could certainly make his presence known.

The blonde cautiously peeked his head out from the rock. The drake had flown passed the cliff – thankfully – and was headed into the snowier peaks. It had what seemed to be chains hanging from its claws. Anduin frowned. That was odd.

The gryphon made a low chortling noise and Anduin shushed it impatiently; his eyes didn’t leave the dragon. It was either leaving its cave – briefly his gaze flickered backwards to where it had come – or going back to it. If he could just follow its path…

The drake disappeared behind the mountains.

Anduin wasted no time. He half-stumbled, half-ran through the snow towards the cave Left had gone into, not caring about how his leg began to cramp again.

He grabbed onto the cave’s side to gain his balance and turned clumsily. “Left! I found them!”

The orc appeared in front of him as if she had been made of the shadows of the dark cave. Anduin didn’t even jump; he was used to the Blacktalons, not just Left, appearing out of thin air.

Her eyes were narrowed, alert. “Where?”

Anduin gingerly hopped onto the mount. “Follow me.” His fingers were tight on the reins and his heart still hammered. Every moment they wasted talking the more risk the drake would disappear among the mountain peaks increased. He couldn’t afford getting so close to finding Wrathion only to fail at the last moment.

Left did not need to be told twice. Nimbly she jumped behind him, but unlike the prince before, she did not put her arms around his waist.

Anduin dug his heels into the gryphon’s side and they rocketed off the cliff. The wind shrieked around him – but the snow had stopped falling now, and the sky was clear, and the gryphon was flying stronger and faster, almost as if it was behaving for its true owner which guided him now.

The blond hardly noticed. His eyes were trained on where he’d last seen the drake as he turned his mount around the mountain. Guiding the gryphon felt second-nature, an afterthought.

It would be easy to spot something so dark against the glistening snow -

“There!”

The drake was just rising just above a natural structure that oddly resembled a bridge, as if the wind itself had carved the curve from the rock, between two of the mountains. Anduin pulled back gently on the gryphon’s reins and slowed her. If they followed too close they risked the drake catching their scent.

But the drake continued – it hadn’t noticed.

“Chains,” Left said behind him. She’d noticed what the drake was holding. Anduin nodded and tried not to imagine that they were for the Black Prince. Even so, it made his stomach twist again.

They followed the drake until it finally slowed itself. Up ahead was one of the higher peaks of the range that surrounded them, and the dragon landed lightly on one of the flat planes of the mountain. Only when the gryphon tilted slightly, realigning its wings as the current of the wind shifted, did Anduin see the large entrance to the cave - it was partially hidden behind rock and snow.

“Land below.” Left said. “We’ll plan our next move.”

Anduin waited until the drake lumbered into the cave, the chains rattling heavily, before guiding the gryphon farther down. It was difficult to land; the newly-fallen snow had hidden safe places to alight, but the gryphon was careful and they set down on a thin piece of jagged rock that jutted out over the abyss.

Anduin held the reins to his torso and glanced up where the cave was, now truly hidden behind the rock. He slid down his mask from his face but kept it held down at his neck; the thing was warm, but difficult to speak through.

“I didn’t see anyone guarding the entrance,” Anduin said as the calmer wind tugged back at his hair. Left wasn’t looking at him. Instead she was turned in her saddle, glaring up at the cave, her tusked mouth set in a grim line.

“No. There isn’t – not yet. That drake may have been a scout.” She paused. The wind below began to scream mutely.

Left turned back and ruffled through the saddlebag hanging on the side of the gryphon’s flank. Anduin watched as her hand emerged with the Kun-lai Summit map; it flapped and shuddered delicately as the orc unraveled it.

She grabbed Anduin’s shoulder and forced his back to her.

“Keep still,” Left grunted, and there was a pressure on his back. Anduin tensed before realizing that she had set flat the parchment against his spine.

Left scoffed loudly after a moment. “This cave only has one entrance.” She tapped once, and the prince felt it through his back, even through the leather. “I suspected we might be lucky with a cavern with two sides, but then again, this elder dragon is too clever. He must have thought about that, too.” There was a faint shuffling as she rolled it back up. Anduin looked back at her as she set the map back in the bag, clasping the metal hooks against the leather carefully.

“Take us up top. We’ll leave your beast outside and climb down the side. I’ll go first, and then you will follow.” Left made a thoughtful humming sound. “We’ll scout out the cave first, then plan what to do when we know the situation.” She turned back to him. “Do you remember the signals I taught you?”

Anduin nodded. Before they had left, Left had given him a quick lesson on some of the signals the Blacktalons used: stay there, too dangerous, come to me, attack, stay your hand… the list went on, but Anduin had been determined to memorize them all, busying himself as they flew across the plains of Kun-lai to the mountains by practicing them in his head.

“Good. Wait for the right signal.” She stared at him. “What are you waiting for? Go!”

“Oh! I’m sorry.” He slipped his mask back on and spurred the gryphon up and over, twisting her to land right above the cave.

Left was off and climbing nimbly and quietly down the side of the cave before Anduin even halted the gryphon.

The prince fumbled. He grabbed his cane and nearly caught his foot in the stirrup of the saddle when he hopped off the beast in his hurry, but he righted himself before he fell flat on his face into the snow and rock. When he looked up, Left was already gone.

For a heartbeat Anduin wondered if she’d just planned to leave him up here.

He shook his head. Even if that was her plan, she should have known he’d follow.

He’d come here to help Wrathion and that’s what he was going to do.

Cautiously, he inched his way to the side then crouched down to take a firm hand- and foothold of the cold, barren rock, awkwardly positioning his cane between his neck and shoulder. His leather gloves had excellent friction, and he was glad, again, for the uniform. He would have frozen or slipped in his cloth.

The first step down he took, his bad leg started to shake and stiffen.

The prince bared his teeth and closed his eyes. “Not now,” he murmured. “Please not now.” He didn’t have time for his own injuries-…

But it hurt. His fingers tightened on the rock and he concentrated harder. His leg still shook; he wished it was just from the cold.

Anduin knew he was wasting precious time as he clung to the rock. He tried to think sense, think passed his pain. Was Wrathion being chained inside? Was he being hurt? Was he dying?

Anduin’s mouth set into a grim line. He opened his eyes. What did his pain even compare to what the other Prince might be feeling now?

With a low, quiet grunt he forced his leg downwards. It shook harder, and he nearly lost his foothold, but he gripped tighter to the rock and stayed balanced.

And, slowly but surely, he made his way down. It was as if he’d gone into himself, into his mind, separate from the panging pain in his body.

It wasn’t long before something tapped his thigh. He stopped and cautiously peered around the rock into the cave.

Left was crouched, a finger to her lips, on what was apparently a higher platform of the cave made of fused stalagmites. Anduin chanced a quick look around the cavern as he moved his body from the side to crawl inside, the relief in his leg almost palpable.

It was a large cave. As he unlatched himself from the rock and crouched next to Left, the first thing he noticed was its silence. The wind seemed to cut across the cave mouth but not enter – it must have been the angle the cave was to the air current – and the effect was a cold, lonely howling sound from the barred breeze that gently echoed outward into the yawning cavern ahead and was quickly swallowed by the shadows.

The cave’s height did not stay tall; instead it receded sharply in height as the cavern curved gently into some unseen other section of the cave.

Anduin spotted the remains of two carcasses on the ground directly below them, blood smeared across the floor from where they’d been dragged in from outside the cold. He could smell the blood from his position.

This place seemed almost … haunted. It didn’t help when Anduin couldn’t spot the drake that had come inside only moments before.

What if it was a trap? What if the drake had seen him when he’d first spotted it? What if it’d purposefully led him here?

Was Wrathion even here at all?

Something tapped his shoulder impatiently and he looked up, snapping out of his thoughts, at Left, who had her face up to her lips. Anduin nodded. He understood that one: stay silent.

The orc turned her back to him and slowly walked forward. Her feet made no sound; she blended almost seamlessly into the black rock.

Anduin had never really seen a Blacktalon in action. He’d watched them disappear into thin air, had been impressed but spooked but their silence, their watchfulness, but … seeing them in action was something much more striking. The very shadows seemed to envelope the orc.

The prince followed – then felt his face grow hot again because of the quiet but clear tapping of his cane on the rock.

Left stopped instantly. She turned to him and narrowed her eyes. She grabbed him, forced him close to the side of the rock, and whispered as quietly as possible.

“Get rid of that cane!”

“My leg can’t hold without it,” Anduin whispered back fervently. The cane hadn’t even crossed his mind. He felt like an idiot.

“You’ll give us away. Either find a way to force your body to walk without that thing or stay behind.”

Anduin stared at her. His mind raced.

He wasn’t going to let himself be left here. Carefully, he put his cane down, then tested his weight on his leg – it shook again. The blond scowled faintly. The climb down the rock had strained it passed its capabilities already and walking without support would be impossible.

An idea sparked.

Anduin smiled. “I have something. It should work.”

Left stared at him impatiently.

The prince closed his eyes and focused on the Light. It bloomed warmly at his chest, familiar and comforting.

Once summoned he directed the Light down, through his waist, his legs, and then to the bottom of his feet. Anduin had only done this a handful of times before – a gnome priest visiting the Exodar when he had trained with Velen had taught him on their downtime from lessons together – and he was no expert.

Yet the Light, as it always did in Anduin’s hands, obeyed him fully as it billowed out from the soles of his leather boots and radiated gently underneath him.

The blond felt his body leave the ground. The fierce strain in his right leg altogether disappeared as his knees were allowed to bend and relax.

Anduin opened his eyes and smiled. He was hovering perhaps two to three inches off the ground, his legs loose. Left was looking at him with approval, though one of her eyebrows was raised questioningly. He’d never performed this spell at the Tavern, though at one point he had been tempted to when Wrathion had been poking fun at his lack of mobility concerning his injury. However, the prince was fine with the cane – the levitation trick always felt… superfluous and unneeded. The cane, at the very least, showed some amount of humility.

Yet the spell came in handy, now. Anduin was glad to have found a situation to showcase its usefulness.

Left was content now. She turned away, and together they moved forward slowly, their dark leather merging in with the shadow. Anduin was nearly as silent as the orc now-… though it was awkward having to crouch and hover at the same time. His knees almost touched his chest.

Soon they were upon the gentle curve that yawned out into the unseen part of the cavern. The ceiling was close to their heads now; Anduin had to be careful to bend his head enough so that the pointed ends of the stalactites wouldn’t brush against his fair hair.

No one had seen them – but then again, there was no one there to see them. Anduin felt his neck prickle with goosebumps, a warning. The paranoia that the drakes they aimed to hunt lay on the other side of the curve Left and Anduin now traversed was thick in the back of his eyes.

Yet there was no trap as they rounded the wall and entered a smaller chamber. Anduin glanced down – and his heart and throat seized.

Propped up against the wall, his head bowed down to his chest, was Wrathion. Both of his gauntlets were gone, his tabard and scaled shirt tattered; slashes were torn across his chest and had ripped across the outfit almost neatly. His black, wavy hair was scrunched and frayed, and on every inch of his dark skin that showed was a vicious pattern of red cuts.

And – his right arm – was it… was it turned all the way around?

Anduin leaned forward, his eyes wide. It didn’t even look like Wrathion was breathing -

No, there was a breath – Wrathion’s chest shakily rose and fell then went still again.

Anduin was not quite sure what he was expecting to see – he knew Wrathion had lost the fight – but seeing the proud Black Prince in such a disheveled, pained state threw all careful calculation from Anduin’s mind. The blond lurched forward, as if to fling himself from the perch -

Left grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back roughly, pinning him against the wall. She made a sharp cutting motion with her hand flat through the air: no.

Anduin gave her an exasperated look. What was she waiting for? Wrathion was unguarded and alone. This could be their only chance. The drake they had tracked had disappeared, and the elder dragon Sablemane that Left had described was nowhere to be seen, either. Wrathion could be dying! Anduin couldn’t even guess the internal wounds he was suffering. If they acted quickly enough, Anduin could heal -

Left pointed at the end of the cave. Anduin hesitantly looked over.

The cavern split into two dark pathways.

Anduin squinted his eyes. There was a glow from one of them, a sort of greenish one. It grew closer, and the prince saw that it was from two spheres of glowing fire from twin snarling snake-headed shoulderpads.

A man emerged from the pathway. The shoulderpads were his; in addition to the fierce snakes he wore a robe of orange and red, and an onyx staff was strapped to his back. His skin was dark like Wrathion’s, and his hair, which went to just above his shoulders, was a thick black. Below his sloped nose was a well-tended moustache and goatee. His eyes were a fierce glowing orange.

From Left’s description before they’d left for Kun-lai, Anduin knew that this was Baron Sablemane – Sabellian.

He felt his heart rise into his throat. It was one thing to plan ahead, to try to ready oneself mentally to face an opponent one had not even seen. It was another thing entirely to see the enemy in the flesh, an enemy that had hurt Wrathion so badly the Prince was hardly breathing.

Anduin steeled himself. His eyes became fierce and determined. Sabellian may have been a son of Deathwing, and he may have brought back-up in the form of two of his drakes, but Anduin had dealt with situations where the odds were stacked up against him and he’d emerged the victor. The Divine Bell came to mind-… though then again, he had not gotten out of that one entirely unscathed.

It didn’t matter. Anduin was prepared to get hurt. He wasn’t afraid.

Sablemane turned his head to Wrathion. He went over at a casual pace and nudged the Prince with his foot. Wrathion made a low, quiet groan.

“Feeling talkative?”

Wrathion was silent. Anduin gripped on the stalactites hanging near him. His heart quickened.

Left tapped his shoulder. The prince glanced back at her without turning his head.

She pointed towards the cavern Sablemane had just come from, then at herself. Holding up her palm flat to him, she gave the last bit of the message:

I will scout ahead. You will stay here.

This time Anduin didn’t argue. He nodded quickly then looked back down at the two brothers.

He didn’t hear Left leave. Even if the orc had made discernible noise, the blond would not have noticed it; he was too focused on the scene below.

Sablemane was only studying Wrathion now. His back was to Anduin; the blond could no longer see his face.

Anduin took the moment’s pause to fully crouch behind one of the rock formations, which seemed to be made from a stalactite fusing into the wall. Now that the initial rush of adrenaline had worn off from seeing Wrathion, especially in the state the young prince was in, a bone-deep worry had settled into Anduin. If they made one mistake… the blond swallowed quietly. He couldn’t make a mistake. Not now.

“We’re close to ending this, little prince,” Sablemane said, breaking the silence. His voice echoed faintly. “Must I use another vicious tactic for those last threads of information?”

Anduin furrowed his brows. Had Sablemane been… questioning him?

For what?

Anduin leaned forward slightly. The chill from the frozen stalagmites glowed against Anduin’s masked face.

Wrathion didn’t move or reply. He was shaking. Anduin wondered anxiously if it was from the cold or from the pain.

For a brief moment Anduin entertained the idea of stretching out the Light far enough to heal the Black Prince from his hiding place – but he dismissed the notion immediately. It may risk giving him away, and even then he wasn’t sure he could guide the Light that far without draining his own strength.

“Is that a yes, or a no?” Sablemane sounded tired, or bored.

Wrathion lifted his face. Anduin clenched his teeth. The Black Prince’s right eye was sown shut with a black and yellow bruise, and blood was dripping from the corner of his mouth.

The young dragon stared vacantly for a moment. He took a deep breath then lowered his face again. His shoulders slouched.

Sablemane leaned, grabbed Wrathion by his hair and tilted his head up, forcing the Prince to look at him. Wrathion didn’t even growl, or glare, or make some snide comment. He looked so much in pain Anduin had to grip the stalactite he was holding even harder, until his fingers went numb, to force himself to stay where he was.

There was a quiet crackling. Anduin squinted his eyes, then looked over in alarm at the dripping rock. He’d held onto it with such a grip that the point was breaking off.

The blond’s eyes widened and he went to snatch it before it fell -

Too late. Almost peacefully the tip of the rock fell and landed with a loud crumble in the silence.

Sablemane looked over instantly. His hand fell from Wrathion’s hair and the Prince’s head fell back down again to his chest.

Anduin shoved himself back behind the rock, right up along the wall behind up, and sucked in his stomach to force his body to look smaller behind his hiding place. His hands were around his mouth – though it was already masked - and his blue eyes went wide.

He could see through a slim crack in the rock he hid behind Sablemane turn his head up to look near where Anduin was; the dragon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Anduin’s heart was beating so hard he hopped that Sablemane couldn’t hear it.

The prince sent a quick, desperate prayer: please don’t let him see me, please don’t let him see me -

There was a long, tense pause.

And then Sablemane huffed and looked at Wrathion, turning his back once again.

Anduin would have sighed in pure relief if it wouldn’t have given him away.

However, he didn’t trust himself to move from his hiding spot again.

It was then Left appeared beside him. He bit his lip to keep from jumping – his nerves were wired.

She pointed to the cavern. Her eyes were bright, almost malicious. Anduin gave her a curious look – what had she found?

Left leaned close then, and whispered so quietly her words were snatched away by the faint howling of the wind near the entrance.

“The chains were for a rabid drake. Tied in the cavern. Another drake stands guard. I can’t go inside – it’s blocked. Stalagmites. A crack you’re small enough to fit through. Go down and untie the dragon. Leave a chain for me to hold. I will release it once you are back here. Distraction. When I release the drake you will get his Majesty. Understand?”

Anduin stared at her vacantly, then shook his head in faint disbelief.

She wanted him to untie a rabid drake? By himself?

Left was looking at him intently, and, holding back another sigh, Anduin nodded.

She made the sign for follow me, which was a quick wave of her hand, and Anduin did so with some hesitation.

Unfortunately, the raised platform they had been able to walk and hide across ended abruptly, merging into the wall, as the cavern split off into its two pathways. Left climbed down first, landing silently. Sablemane’s back was still to them.

Anduin floated down. Oh, this levitation spell was excellent for sneaking. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

Left led the way again. The pathway was short, but dark, and more than once Anduin nearly drifted into the stalagmites that now grew from the floor like ant-hills that steadily grew larger as the natural hallway began to widen.

Left put her hand up - wait – as they got to a large cluster of the stalagmites. Nimbly, she jumped onto them, and Anduin realized then that these had made another platform that they could sneak over to look down below. The orc grabbed onto his arm and pulled him up beside her.

Unlike the earlier platform in the main cavern, these stalagmites were not altogether fused – many blocked their path in clusters, and they had to weave around them cautiously.

At the very end of the path, an especially thick group of the rock completely blocked their way, save for a slim opening between two of the growing rock. Left glanced back at him, then pointed below.

Anduin glanced down.

The black drake they had tracked was sitting guard at the secondary cavern’s entrance. Anduin pulled back, alarmed – but the drake didn’t seem to notice nor smell them.

She turned, then pointed again, this time at the crack she had mentioned before in the stalagmites. He obeyed and looked through.

Below, indeed wrapped in chains, was a younger black drake. It was convulsing slightly, drooling, and a thin layer of blood had drifted from dried wounds in its neck down to the rock floor.

What was the most worrisome was the black smoke rolling off of its scales, curling almost elegantly into the air before dispersing. And the smoke was not only coming off its body – it rolled from its open eyes, from its open mouth. Its forepaws were twisted into long, vicious talons, deadly-sharp and tipped with a glowing white, and at the ends of its wings’ webbings the glowing white burned.

Anduin recognized the energy immediately for what it was: Sha.

The prince bit the inside of his cheek and stared. Now he really understood Left’s plan. This drake was possessed, and violent, if the chains were of any indication.

And she wanted him to go down there and untie it. He looked back at her with an incredulous look.

Left was staring at him impatiently.

Anduin hesitated, then looked back down at the drake. It… did seem to be unconscious. And they had no other plan to distract the eldest dragon.

The prince shook his head, then slipped through the crack. He gave a cautious look down at the older drake, but she paid him no mind – her eyes were focused out at the main cavern where Sablemane was with Wrathion.

Anduin gently moved from the platform and drifted down, landing near the drake’s side.

The smell hit him first through his mask. He tried not to gag. There was a sweet-smelling, rotten tinge to the drake’s scent. That wasn’t Sha-like. It reminded him of the smell of the Old God shrine he had found in Stormwind -

His eyes widened. Black dragon. Old God.

Oh.

He swallowed, but forced down his fear. What had he expected? Of course the black dragon was corrupted – Wrathion was the only one who wasn’t – but he didn’t recall such… such a smell from Onyxia. Perhaps the corruption mixed with the Sha had done something odd to the drake’s body. He wasn’t sure, and honestly, he didn’t want to know. It made goosebumps prickle at his arms.

Anduin cautiously approached the drake, then bent down to start unlatching the first chains around the dragon’s forepaws, trying not to think of what a possessed, corrupted, violent black drake could do to a small human teenager.

Worse still, Anduin had to look away to focus on unraveling the links, and the instinctual fear that he would glance back up and find the beast staring back at him was thick in his heart.

The chains on the front paws came off easily. Anduin was pleased; they hadn’t been tied too tight.

He drifted back towards the drake’s back legs, grabbed the chains there -

The dragon growled lowly.

Anduin froze, a sheep in the eyes of a wolf.

Slowly, the drake turned its angled head. Its mouth was still open, and the sha energies continued to pour out in a thick goop, fogging its face. The dragon’s movements were so jerky and mechanical as it turned its entire snake-like head to face him, that it looked as if someone were pulling strings to move the beast.

The drake’s eyes fixated on Anduin, but they seemed almost … lifeless, as blank as the shiny buttons on the eyes of a doll. The prince didn’t move, only stared back.

Anduin waited for something. Anything. His mouth went dry and the chains were cold in his gloved hands.

But the drake did nothing, only hissed, unending, and stared.

Slowly, the prince undid the chains at the drake’s back paws until only the chain at the drake’s neck remained, the chain that Left wanted.

But the dragon was still staring at him.

Anduin took a deep breath and put a shield about himself. He looked around, trying to find where the end of the neck’s chain was – there! It was lodged into the wall on the far side.

He hovered over to it, careful to keep his eyes on the drake – who still had not moved – and tried to wiggle the chain from the rock. It budged, but hardly.

The drake growled again. Anduin fumbled for his throwing knives, managed to grab one, then worked it into the rock, moving the chain back and forth at the same time. It loosened slowly. Too slowly. Sweat began to bead at the blond’s forehead despite the cold -

The chain popped free. He grinned, then turned to levitate back up to Left.

Anduin’s grin fell.

The drake was awkwardly trying to get to its feet, though its balance was off and judging by how it was flailing out its limbs, it seemed to forget how to move.

And Anduin was on the other side of the room to where he needed to be.

The prince didn’t hesitate this time. He started to quickly make his way over - he could see Left looking down at him – while the dragon shuffled, snarling and muttering.

The drake suddenly struck its head out when he came close with a lightning-quick snap. Anduin’s levitation shimmered, and he fell hard on his legs and forced back a yelp as his right leg’s pain shot through his entire right side –

But he shielded himself just in time for the drake’s black maw to bounce off of him. It shrieked angrily and pulled back, giving the blond just enough time to cast his levitation spell again and half-jump, half-fly back up to the stalagmite platform.

Anduin practically shoved the chains in Left’s hand. He panted hard but quietly as the rush of fear fell from him.

That had not been enjoyable.

The orc nodded at him, her eyes expressionless to his condition, then pointed back to the path. Anduin nodded; she wanted him to go back to the main cavern and wait.

The prince made his way back, drifting through the pathway then back up to his initial hiding place up along the wall. Fortunately, Sablemane’s back was still to him; the elder dragon had not moved from his spot since Anduin had left.

The blond settled himself in and waited for Left to let loose the drake. Anduin was so tense his entire body felt ready to spring. Once the drake was causing enough of a distraction, he could jump down and get Wrathion.

A thought occurred to him.

How… was he going to “get” Wrathion? Could the Black Prince shift into his smaller dragon form in his state? Was he too weak to?

Anduin dearly hoped not. Otherwise this may end up badly.

“You said it was some sort of Titan technology that purified you?”

Anduin’s eyes flickered into focus as Sablemane spoke. He squinted his eyes downward and watched quietly.

Wrathion made a low noise in his throat – an affirmative.

“And this ‘Rhea’ found it?”

Silence.

Sablemane sighed. “Don’t make me do that again.”

Still Wrathion said nothing.

Sablemane leaned. Anduin furrowed his brows. What was-?

The elder dragon had grabbed Wrathion’s left wrist.

“One last chance to speak.”

Wrathion hesitated, then opened his mouth -

There was a scream. Sablemane and Anduin in unison looked over at the cavern.

An enormous explosion resounded from the hallway and a plume of rock and dust bloomed from the opening. The ground shook -

And the sha-infested drake burst through the cavern opening, rock flying, and wailed. The energies were sparking sporadically around it now. Sablemane didn’t even have time to dodge as his own ally saw him and tackled him heavily with a roar; strangely, Wrathion yelled then went quiet suddenly.

This was Anduin’s chance. Heart near to bursting from panic he jumped and just in time recalled his levitation spell before he hit the ground and landed a yard away from the Black Prince. From the corner of his eye he could see that Sablemane had somehow slipped from underneath the drake and was sending screaming fireballs at the rabid dragon which burst hotly, the glow radiating light across the entire cavern.

The once quiet cave was now a shrieking battlefield.

In his rush Anduin’s concentration on his spell wore off – he half ran, half stumbled to Wrathion and near fell to his knees in front of the Black Prince. The prince put his hands on the young dragon’s shoulders; Light billowed warmly from his palms and seeped through Wrathion’s scuffed pauldrons. The Black Prince seemed to have fallen unconscious in the slim moment Sablemane had been pushed from him. What on -?

Anduin looked down at the wrist Sablemane had been holding. It was twisted at an awkward angle – the tackle must have forced the wrist to twist, as Sablemane had been holding it. No wonder Wrathion had yelled.

Despite the noise, the explosions, the snarls, Wrathion wasn’t waking.

“Wrathion!” Anduin yelled, right in his face. “Please, you have to wake up!”

He intensified the Light until he felt his forehead go dizzy; he was summoning too much too fast, but he couldn’t care about that right now.

Finally Wrathion’s eyes fluttered.

There was a large cracking sound near the entrance of the cavern. Sablemane and the drake had disappeared, relocating their fight there as they had traded blows, and only when Anduin made a quick glance over did he spot a large, red-clubbed tail swinging from around the curve.

Of course. Sablemane’s dragon form wouldn’t fit in the cavern Anduin and Wrathion were in now.

Anduin put his full attention on Wrathion again when the Black Prince moaned lowly.

“Wrathion?”

One of the dragon’s eyes opened slightly and fixed on Anduin. His gaze was blank.

Anduin took a hand from the Prince’s shoulder and pulled down his mask to reveal who he was. “It’s me. Now, please, you have to try to stand up. I’m not sure how much time we have.”

Wrathion squinted his eye. Confusion flickered in the glowing red.

“… Anduin Wrynn?” Wrathion’s voice was a croak.

“Yes! Now, please -”

“You look -” he coughed, blood flicking up onto his lips, and looked the blond up and down slowly “-ridiculous.”

There was a roar of anger from the cave mouth. The entire cavern shook as something large was thrown against the wall.

Anduin shot the younger prince a quick glare, but forced down his retort in replace of saving an argument. “Can you shift into dragon form? I can’t carry you otherwise.”

Wrathion still looked confused. His eyes drifted from Anduin to the cave mouth where Sabellian was dealing with the drake.

“It’s very loud,” Wrathion mumbled stupidly. Anduin stared at him, wide-eyed. He put his hand on the side of Wrathion’s face and tilted his head back to him. “Mm. Am I dead, Anduin?”

“No, you’re not dead! Wrathion, please, I need you to shift into your dragon form. Please.” Panic began to sour at the back of Anduin’s throat. This wasn’t working.

Another explosion, and an unearthly shriek that reminded Anduin of the screams of the Sha that he’d helped disperse at the Red Crane’s temple echoed down through the mountain cave.

Wrathion blinked slowly, then closed his eyes. Anduin thought he was going to fall unconscious again, but then the Black Prince’s eyebrows sloped downwards as he concentrated.

Anduin busied himself by moving his hands from Wrathion’s face and shoulder and hovering them over his chest, where claw mark wounds had partially scabbed over, and tried to heal them. They began to close -

“Ugh. I… I cannot… shift.”

Anduin looked up at Wrathion. The Black Prince’s head was swaying back and forth gently, dizzily, as if he couldn’t hold it up any longer.

“Just focus harder!”

Wrathion looked at him, and for a slim moment, he managed a glare – then he groaned and his head fell unceremoniously to rest on one of Anduin’s shoulders.

Anduin went to jostle him, panic fresh in his bones again – how long could the drake hold Sabellian off? - but stopped himself. No – that would make Wrathion’s pain worse.

But Wrathion was barely responsive and he wasn’t going to shift. And Anduin was not going to be able to carry him.

Maybe if he could heal the dragon quickly in some of his lesser wounds – Anduin’s hands went to Wrathion’s torso again. If some of the pain went away -

It was only then that he realized that the roars and shaking had stopped.

Anduin tried to force Wrathion to stand up by attempting to lift him – but the dragon was complete dead weight and Anduin’s arms shook from the strain. “Wrathion, please, this is -!”

Something grabbed and lifted him from behind by hooking through his leather, right into the skin, and teared him away from Wrathion. Anduin was slammed back into the wall; his eyes shook and his shoulder was aflame with pain.

Baron Sablemane, his face smeared with black blood like some sort of war paint, stood snarling at him with murder in his hotly-glowing eyes. The elder dragon’s teeth were pointed, and his lips were curled back in such an animalistic way his face looked near-dragon still.

“You lot are roaches!” He lifted Anduin from the wall then slammed him back into it in anger – but Anduin was ready and set a shield about himself so his back bounced harmlessly off of the rock, even though Sablemane still had a grip on his shoulder with his claws.

“A priest? You have priest Agents? This is absurd! Who haven’t you tricked into servitude, you blasted little hatchling?”

Wrathion was staring sidelong at them. He said nothing.

Sablemane kicked Wrathion hard in the chest with his heel and the Black Prince hissed. Anduin took the distraction to try to grab a knife from his belt – but Sablemane saw and grabbed his wrist.

Desperate the prince kicked out with his good leg and managed to kick Sablemane in the gut, but the dragon only grunted and tightened his claws into Anduin’s flesh.

“I take your Prince, I burn your headquarters to the ground, and yet you still come for him? This egotistical, selfish, worthless excuse for a dragon? You follow him as blindly as the Cultists did my father!”

“I’m not an Agent. He’s my friend,” Anduin said, and despite the calm in his voice he was glaring with the viciousness that his father was famed for.

“Your friend.” Sablemane repeated, hissing. He dropped Anduin, who fell to his knees hard. “What a stupid lie to tell yourself. You’re just a follower.”

Anduin gritted his teeth and looked up. “I’m not a follower. He is my friend. I don’t know why you want to kill him, or what you want from him, but I’m going to help him.”

Sablemane snorted. “Such confidence. Not an Agent, are you? Who are you?”

“I am Anduin Wrynn, Prince of Stormwind.” He straightened up his back and stared at Sablemane defiantly with all the pride of the human kingdom in his blue eyes.

“… The prince of Stormwind.” Sablemane laughed without humor. “Is that so? The very same little boy I heard my sister nearly succeeded in manipulating to crumble Stormwind to the ground? What a twisted coincidence.”

“I’m not a little boy anymore.” Anduin went to rise again, but almost casually Sablemane reached out with a heel and shoved him back down.

“Indeed.” He grabbed Anduin by the hair, as he had Wrathion earlier, and studied his face with a glare of his own; he let go abruptly and glanced between the two princes. Wrathion was staring at Anduin vacantly.

Anduin thought quickly. The distraction had worked, but they hadn’t counted on Wrathion being so far gone from pain that he wouldn’t have worked with him. Perhaps he could go about this in a way he was used to – perhaps he could settle this peacefully, without any more death.

“And yet here you are helping a black dragon.”

“I told you. He’s my friend.”

“And yet you have no idea what this vicious little friend of yours did to provoke me so? How tragically ignorant.”

The feeling of unease Anduin had had at the Tavern – the feeling that something was not quite right with this whole situation – found him. Sablemane was from Outland. Anduin… knew Wrathion had done something to make the dragon aware of his younger brother’s existence.

What had Wrathion done?

“I’d like to hear,” Anduin said quietly. He heard Wrathion growl lowly, but ignored him.

“Why I tried to kill this pathetic wyrm?” Sablemane grabbed Anduin again and lifted him up. “A blind follower willing to listen to the ‘enemy.’ Very refreshing.” The dragon snorted, then walked them slightly around the curve near the entrance.

“He’s declared genocide on my brood. My family. My children. Are you familiar with Gruul the Dragonkiller?”

Anduin nodded. The conversation had flipped so suddenly from Sablemane screaming in his face to the elder dragon talking casually the prince wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

“I’m sure you can imagine where ‘Dragonkiller’ came from.” Sablemane stopped walking so that they were inbetween both caverns. “The beast killed most of my eldest children. Impaled them on the rocks like trophies. I could do nothing but watch them rot. Lovely, isn’t it?” The more Sablemane spoke the more his claws dug into the prince’s shoulder again, but Anduin swallowed and attempted to ignore it. He had to hear this dragon out. If there was some way to settle this peacefully… he needed to know all the angles.

“I’m sorry for your children,” Anduin said. Sablemane rolled his eyes. “But I know Gruul was killed – that may have brought you some peace.”

The dragon stared at him critically then. The look reminded Anduin of the expressions of some of the Horde had given him when he’d spoken highly of them, or sympathized with them – a look of unsure disbelief.

“Some peace. Until your little ‘friend’ over there had one of his ants march into my home and kill one of my youngest daughters – unprovoked, might I add.”

Anduin stared at him, then flickered his eyes over to Wrathion. The young dragon could hear them, no doubt – he was only a yard away – but his head was down and his eyes were on the floor.

“There must have been some reason,” Anduin said then, slowly, as he turned his look back to Sablemane. He chose his next words carefully. “I … do know that Wrathion was intent on being the last black dragon because of his race’s corruption -”

“Do I look insane to you?”

The question caught him off guard. “I –…”

“It isn’t a hard question, is it?”

Anduin set his jaw. He squinted at Sablemane and drudged up memories of Lady Katrana – Onyxia – from the back of his mind - memories he wanted to forget. There was one – she was smiling down at him, her purple eyes flashing… there it was, in her eyes. There was never quite… something right with her eyes, as if something was subtly broken behind the iris, as is there was a wire or two gently snapped. There was a shattered look about them, a look so hidden under her beauty that many forgot about it with her charm.

But Anduin remembered.

He looked at Sablemane’s orange ones hard then, with Onyxia’s fresh in his mind; the dragon looked back at him coolly.

But look as scrutinizing as he liked, there was nothing. There was nothing off about them, save for the draconic glow. He looked… normal.

Anduin was silent for a long moment before he responded. “You don’t look insane.”

Sablemane smiled grimly. “I’m glad you see that. Now, why try to explain that to your friend? He refuses to believe me. Not once have I started foaming at the mouth, I can assure you.”

Sablemane sounded like he was joking, but he still looked angry. “Now. I’ll repeat what I said: your Prince over there killed my youngest daughter with a lapdog, unprovoked.”

Anduin took a deep breath. “He must not have know you weren’t corrupted.” The words felt odd in his mouth. Was… was Sablemane not corrupted at all? He didn’t look insane, but…

He glanced at Wrathion. He’d heard the Black Prince’s speech so many times about being the last black dragon, the only uncorrupted black dragon, that his mind seemed to be struggling to grasp that the Prince might have been completely wrong.

Though then again, it helped to play along with Sablemane.

“Mm. Even when I tried to explain my condition he still explained quite confidently to me that he would kill my family. Now, put yourself in my position: what would you have done? Or – certainly you have a father still, yes? Being a prince. What would he have done?”

Anduin knew what Varian would have done. If someone had declared their intent to kill the prince, right in the Ghost Wolf’s face, his father would have most likely killed them on the spot.

Sablemane must have seen the answer in Anduin’s eyes. “You see? I had no choice.” He brought Anduin closer to his face. “I would kill a thousand worthless princes for my family’s protection. And now -” his voice started to become angry again, hissing - “a foolish, idiotic, childish human who thinks his Prince is full of goodness and worth saving has just forced me to nearly kill my own son!”

Sablemane’s eyes flared then flickered back to the cave entrance. Anduin stared at him. The look in his face – suddenly he was in Ironforge again during the siege, and Varian was looking at him with fierce, protective worry as he held his weapon to Moira’s throat to kill her.

Except Anduin was Moira now.

Anduin glanced over to where Sablemane had looked and saw that the possessed drake, the senseless beast he’d help loosen on his own father, lying haphazardly on the stone floor. The sha energies had left him, and the dragon was curled in on himself; new, terrible wounds arced across his face, his back, his legs.

Anduin felt sick. He swallowed and looked at the elder dragon who was looking at him with such rage Anduin felt sure he was about to die.

“If I could heal your son, would you consider letting Wrathion go?” He said quickly as Sablemane’s grip had started to tighten.

The dragon paused – then snarled. “And what? Have him track down my younger children in Blade’s Edge to slaughter? I think not.”

Anduin thought quickly. “I know you were trying to ask him something.”

“Yes. His secret. His lack of corruption. What about it?”

Ah. So he was not fully lacking corruption. Anduin tilted his head, confused- why did he appear so sane, then?

The prince dismissed the thought. There was too much about this whole fiasco he dared not tread recklessly with this talk without knowing all of the facts. “If I could get him to talk to you-”

“What makes you think he’ll tell you?”

“He trusts me,” Anduin said, surprised in the confidence in his voice despite how unsure he was in his statement. “And if it saved his life-”

Sablemane squinted at him hard. From their right was the ragged breathing coming from the still-living drake and the screams of the muted winds; the sun was rising, the night dead.

“I would so enjoy killing him,” Sablemane drawled. “Though I do need another… angle besides this senseless torture. Perhaps -”

An arrow pierced through Sablemane’s back and sunk through to show its tip at his chest.

The dragon roared in pain. He dropped Anduin, twirling around, fire exploding from his mouth as he half transformed. Another arrow hit him in the shoulder. Anduin scrambled to his feet and saw Left standing in front of Wrathion, who had managed to shift into his dragon form – when had that happened? Anduin thought dazedly – with her crossbow loaded.

Everything seemed to blur. Anduin went to yell at them to stop, that he had nearly had this handled without more blood and fire but Left kept shooting and Sablemane transformed fully, but was cramped in the small space, his wings splayed, his muzzle curled into an angered snarl.

Anduin moved out of the way, his leg screaming, as Sabellian’s tail whipped about, crashing against the wall and sending stalactite’s falling. He didn’t have time to change what the situation had become. Left was moving backwards, driving Sabellian’s attention, and Anduin saw his chance and surged forward, adrenaline numbing his pain. He grabbed Wrathion, held the limp whelp close to his chest, slid through Sabellian’s bent back legs and ran to the entrance, whistling panickedly for his gryphon.

He passed the dying drake – the one he’d offered to heal – and he hesitated for just a moment, and Wrathion hissed at him, a hiss to tell him to keep going, for he’d heard Anduin’s offer -

Anduin didn’t have time to choose.

“NO!” Sabellian had saw them and tried to turn himself around, but the cave was too big and he was too slow, and he snarled in frustration, fire shooting from his mouth and splaying across the cave, just missing Anduin’s heels – but the prince could feel the ends of his hair burn from the heat and then suddenly there was a swipe of wind as Sabellian desperately tried to grab the prince by the legs but just missed.

And then there was Left beside him, and she grabbed him by the collar and nearly dragged him out of the cave. The gryphon was there, having heard the whistle, then shrieked once she saw Sabellian, but Left was quick and hopped on her, and then she dragged Anduin and Wrathion up along the beast’s back.

The gryphon jumped from the side into the morning air and the ferocious screams and roars of Sabellian echoed along the mountain side as the wind sheared against Anduin’s face.


	7. Chapter 7

“You didn’t need to shoot him!”

They hurdled through the mountains. The sun was rising, and its glare across the snowy peaks was nearly blinding. Anduin squinted his eyes and held on tight to Left’s waist with one arm, while his other was wrapped protectively around Wrathion, who was wedged in-between the orc’s back and the blond’s stomach.

“I did what I had to. I saw my chance and took it, and the Prince is out of danger now because of it,” came Left’s snarl as she turned the gryphon hard around one of the mountains, then tilted them downwards into a stomach-dropping dive. The wind screamed in Anduin’s ears.

The prince closed his eyes. It took effort, but he managed to swallow down the argument that burned at the back of his head: that he nearly had it handled peacefully. That though Wrathion was out of danger now, the elder dragon was still alive, that he would come for him again. If he could have just coaxed Wrathion into talking to Sabellian…

The gryphon went level and Anduin opened his eyes again. He couldn’t waste time worrying over it now. The slim chance for any semblance of peace had been broken when Left’s arrow had pierced Sablemane’s chest.

What he had to worry now was Wrathion’s well-being. He glanced down at the whelp curled in the crook of his arm and his frustration with Left was forgotten, overcome with concern for the unresponsive dragon. The Black Prince’s head was tilted, as if to hide his face, into the bend of Anduin’s wrist, and one of his wings limply drooped over the blond’s arm that held him close. The shine of Wrathion’s blood was bright against his black scales and Anduin’s leather garb where it had smeared.

A ferocious roar echoed faintly from the mountains.

The gryphon faltered. Wrathion curled up into himself more and Anduin chanced a glance over his shoulder, eyes wide.

Sabellian hadn’t been able to follow them immediately – Anduin briefly recalled, in the blurred and recent memory, the dragon’s frustration, how his large draconic form couldn’t move nor budge in the low cavern – but it didn’t seem to have held him forever.

“We are far off. Be glad your gryphon is as white as the snow, Prince Anduin! We’ll lose him easily.” Left called behind her shoulder, then turned the panicking gryphon downwards and around through the canyons. There was another roar, and just as Anduin turned his face back to look ahead of them again he saw from the corner of his eye a far-off explosion of snow lit behind fire.

“Left -”

“I hear him.”

She yanked on the reins and dug her heels into the gryphon’s sides simultaneously; the gryphon nose-dived with a shriek, and Anduin had to tighten his hold hard on the orc’s waist and Wrathion himself from flying back off of the mount.

The gryphon equaled out, but was soon twirled around one of the peaks.

“Left, what are you doing?!” Anduin yelled. His whole vision bobbed up and down.

“Losing him! Now be quiet, prince!”

Another roar from behind them, closer. There was a sudden rush of air against the back of Anduin’s head, ruffling his burnt hair -

From above and from nowhere Sabellian’s jaws descended and snapped so close to the gryphon’s flank that if Left had not forced the mount into another dive with her viper-quick twist of the reins the rescue party would have been done right then and there.

The white gryphon screamed. Anduin yelled, too.

Another snap from Sabellian, who was flying right behind them now, but clumsily in the quickly-shrinking canyons, as they shot from the deeper mountains towards the smaller range that was nearer to the Summit’s plains.

Heat glowed behind them and the mountains went alight with the red highlight of fire.

But Sabellian was still too far away from them for the hit to land… though he was catching up fast.

“Hold on, prince!” Left yelled. Anduin did as he was told and gripped onto Wrathion tightly. The whelp whined.

With the gryphon’s nimbleness, throttled nearer towards a frenzy from the beast’s panic, Left began executing sharp turns, dives, and loops through and around the peaks. Fire continued to burst behind them, but as dizzy and sick as Anduin felt from the wild riding he could slowly feel its heat become less and less hot against his back.

Sabellian was falling behind, no doubt slowed by the gryphon’s swerves. Again the dragon’s size, as in the cavern, had been a downfall.

“Cowards!” The elder dragon roared. “Come back here!”

The gryphon and its riders shot around another peak.

“We can’t keep going like this,” Anduin shouted above the wind. “My gryphon is going to tire herself out!”

The beast was well-bred, but no animal could fly as hard as she was for that long.

Left nodded – then rocks showered above their heads. Sabellian was trying to gain the advantage by flying high above them.

Anduin looked up, and saw the dragon slam his tail into the peak above, and larger boulders fell from the mountain-side… but even then the dragon was too far behind and the rocks fell harmlessly behind them -

Until Sablemane slammed a rock with his tail and it struck the gryphon’s back leg with a crack.

The animal screeched and faltered. Sabellian shot down from the peak, his wings folded close to his sides like a falcon’s, and dove so quickly that it seemed impossible with his size.

Left tried to urge the gryphon on at the same speed but the mount was still faltering, still slowing, and Sabellian was nearly upon them with his talons beginning to stretch out and his neck snapping forward like a cobra’s -

At the last possible moment Anduin tore his arm from Left’s waist and felt himself lurch backwards, but in that slim heartbeat of a second, he lifted his free hand and summoned the Light in an explosion of white and it enveloped them like a shell, a shield, thick and pulsating like the skin of a heart.

Anduin fell back against the wall of the Light’s shield – then slammed forward into Left’s back as Sabellian’s claws slammed into the barrier and hurdled them forward.

The dragon flailed, Left turned the gryphon sharply, and Sabellian, now off-balance from his claws slipping against the slippery barrier, slammed into the side of the mountain with a boom, his wings askew.

Anduin’s arm found Left’s waist again as his shield flickered; it wouldn’t catch him again.

Anduin, breathing hard, his heart in his throat at having been that close to falling to his death, turned away and squinted his eyes as Left flew them down into the canyons of the lower mountains and dove underneath one of the outcrops of rock.

Left halted the gryphon to a stop; the beast’s sides shook, and her leg that had been hit by the rock was tucked up near its belly.

“Left,” Anduin whispered, his voice breathless, his heart still wild, “what are we doing?” Sabellian had crashed into the mountain and the distraction had given them all the time in the world to fly out of the mountain range and into the plains. Wrathion twitched his wings in Anduin’s arms once, then went still again. He’d hardly moved at all during the chase.

A muted, echoing snarl rippled above them, followed by the frenzied beating of wings.

“Losing him. He would have caught up again,” the orc hissed. “Now shut up.”

The rock that they hid underneath just allowed them to see a slim viewpoint of the sky above – but the entire party stilled and near-held their breath as Sabellian’s tucked-in claws and clubbed tail sailed into view. Anduin was unable to see any far up, for the rock blocked his vision.

Sabellian paused in midair; his great wings kept him aloft, beating hard to keep him in one place. Anduin swallowed. The dragon could be staring at them right now and they wouldn’t have known it, unable to see his face…

The dragon snarled, lifted his wings and flew in the direction he had come.

Anduin closed his eyes and sighed out deep in relief. His tight hold on Wrathion loosened the slightest amount.

“We’ll wait a bit longer before heading towards the plains,” Left murmured. Anduin nodded.

After a long, quiet moment, with no sounds of wings or roars, the orc inched the injured gryphon, who limped badly, out from underneath the rock. Anduin looked up, squinting his eyes to shield them from the rising sun, but saw no dragon waiting for them like a cat at a mouse’s hide-hole.

Compared to the frenzy of the chase, the quiet of the mountains was unnerving as they took off into the air again and headed towards the plains, which came upon them quickly as the mountain range steadily became lower and lower before sloping down altogether. Anduin kept expecting for Sabellian to pop out from some hidden crevice, but now that they were on the open ground, that particular paranoia fell away. The human felt, for now, the slightest bit safer.

Left turned the gryphon high up into the clouds. They were quiet for a time, the only sound the gryphon’s heavy breathing and the wail of the wind.

“We should stop soon,” Anduin said, finally breaking the silence as they passed over a hozen camp. His nerves had calmed down. “Wrathion-”

“I know about His Majesty’s condition, young prince. I’m not a fool. But we need to make some distance between ourselves and the black dragons beforehand.”

Anduin said nothing. Left was right, but Wrathion’s wounds would only get worse the longer they weren’t looked at; it was a frustrating decision. He glanced down at the unconscious, bloodied whelp, bit the inside of his cheek, before he looked out over the yellow-brown landscape below them.

“We’ll be near the Vale soon,” he said after a moment. If there was a good place to heal Wrathion, it would be in the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, whose mystic waters were famed for their restorative properties – properties Anduin himself still wished to study more of, not having had much of a chance to because of his recovery from the Divine Bell. “The Shrine of Seven Stars would -”

“Not the… not the Vale.” Anduin glanced down, surprised. Wrathion hadn’t opened his eyes, but he’d finally spoken, though his voice was barely coherent over the wind and the rasp of his throat. “They’ll… they’ll recognize me.”

“Who will?” Anduin asked, confused.

“Champions,” Wrathion mumbled.

Anduin stared at him. He didn’t understand why that was so problematic. What was -?

“If His Majesty doesn’t want to go to the Vale, we won’t go to the Vale,” Left said. There was a tone of warning in her words. Anduin ground his teeth, but relented.

“The Valley of the Four Winds is below the Vale,” he murmured, trying to peel away the grumble in his words. “We could stop there.”

“It will have to do,” the orc said.

Anduin squinted down at Wrathion, waiting for him to protest, but the dragon seemed to have drifted off again.

The prince sighed and looked up again. The Vale would have been a better place, but the Valley was a good second option; the farming community there would probably not recognize the whelp for who he was and leave them alone.

As they flew, the Gate of the Vale gently becoming sharper in shine as they approached it, Anduin mulled to himself. The black dragons would be coming from Wrathion again, he supposed, and Left, Anduin, and Wrathion couldn’t stay in the Valley of the Four Winds forever. They had to find somewhere safe, somewhere guarded, where not even a full-grown son of Deathwing could easily barge into.

Anduin frowned thoughtfully. There was… one place… but hiding a black dragon, whelp or no, inside would not be the greatest idea… yet it was the only place that made sense.

The blond smiled then. Maybe it was a good idea. He filed the thought away to recommend to Left later as the sun rose against them.

—-

It was mid-afternoon when they arrived in Halfhill.

Left landed on one of the many dirt paths that led up into the large market area. Enormous, near-monstrous white hawks circled above, eyed the party curiously, then strove on in the direction of the rivers. On the horizon were dark, rolling clouds – a thunderstorm in the making, not unfamiliar to the Valley of the Four Winds.

Though they were outside of the town, Anduin could already hear the sounds of voracious trading, laughter, and playing mutely from the inn, the odd but uplifting wind-instruments of Pandaren song.

But what captivated the blond’s attention most was the intoxicating smell of food, from steak to noodles to brews, that drifted by on the gentle afternoon-breeze. His mouth watered; the prince hadn’t eaten since he’d left Lion’s Landing -… had it already been a day, already?

“Remember to keep your head down, prince,” Left grumbled as she guided the gryphon up the slope that led into the busy commerce-place. “You probably won’t be recognized – the mask while hide your features - but caution is best.”

Anduin nodded, then bent his head as they passed by the first buildings and began to weave through the steady traffic of people, most of them Pandaren. Some gave them wary glances – the prince suspected it was for the uniforms Left and he wore, for he was aware that the quiet infamy of the Blacktalons unnerved many - but no one stopped them.

Anduin busied himself by looking over the sleeping dragon in his arms again. Wrathion had hardly spoken since leaving Kun-lai, save for the occasional groan and whine. He calculated what wounds would be easiest to heal, which would be quickest, and what would be the most difficult. He frowned at the whelp’s forearm. Surely that would be -

“Get off.”

Anduin looked up as the saddle jostled with a jingle. Left had hopped off, and as she looped the leather reins from the white gryphon she gave the blond a pointed look. Only then did Anduin realize she was blocking him – and Wrathion – from view of most of those passing by with her back.

Quickly the prince huddled Wrathion closer to his chest, tucking in his purple-webbed wing into its gentle fold so that the brightness of the color would not flash out too much among the black. For any glancing eyes, they would only see black scales in Anduin’s arms; whether they thought it an onyx cloud serpent hatchling or simple dragonscale leather, the blond didn’t care, just as long as they couldn’t see it was the son of Deathwing.

The dragon let out a shaky breath as he was shifted around.

“Don’t open your eyes,” Anduin whispered, and put his other arm around the whelp to hold him securely. He twisted sideways in the saddle, then slid off, landing on his good leg; Anduin wouldn’t be able to use his cane while holding the Black Prince, but the blond was sure he could manage a few steps without it –… and he could not levitate out in the open so obviously without catching attention.

Left nodded at him, then turned and walked in the direction of one of the larger buildings in the town. The music Anduin had heard before was cheerily coming from its open windows and doors. It must have been the inn.

The prince followed close behind, bending his head again and keeping Wrathion close, but made sure to stay far back enough where he wouldn’t be stepping on the orc’s heels. His right leg burned as they walked up and down the small slope, passing a larger incline up where small residential shacks were built. People continued to glance at the party from the corner of their eyes - but looked away when Left shot them a glare when she caught them staring.

“Stable master - watch the gryphon. Fix her leg.” Anduin peered up through his hanging bangs; Left shoved the gryphon’s reins into the hands of a surprised looking Pandaren who stood in front of the inn, and handed over a small satchel of gold for the fare from her belt.

The rogue glanced back, saw Anduin was still there, then continued up into the tavern with a heavy stomping of her boots.

Anduin followed. The inn was loud with music, but the building was not altogether crowded. The blond supposed it was because of the time; the Valley was composed mostly of farming communities, and, just like the inns in Elywnn Forest, the tavern here would not be lively until the sun set and work was done.

“The innkeeper is there. Get yourselves a room.” Left was talking quietly, and Anduin had to strain to hear what she was saying above the music and casual conversations of the Pandaren around them. The orc nodded in the direction of a youthful Pandaren female who was organizing foodstuffs onto one of the tables.

Anduin tilted his bowed head up enough to frown at her. “What about yo-?”

“I won’t be needing a room. I will stand guard.”

Anduin stared at her, then furrowed his brows. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Now go.”

“ - Wait. Can we eat first?” The smell of the food was near-dizzying now, but Anduin was more worried about Wrathion’s hunger than his own. When was the last time the Black Prince had eaten? Wrathion, he knew, was a voracious eater, who inhaled food even quicker than the blond did. He must be starving.

Left seemed to understand. “I’ll get the food. Get the room and go upstairs.”

Anduin nodded. “Please get plain broth.”

“Broth.”

“Yes. And try to find some bandages, too, please – for his wounds.”

Left squinted at him, relented, then turned.

A thought occurred to Anduin as he bent his face again.

“Wait! Left, if you find some of the tea he likes, can you get that, too? The Lapsang Souchong I think they would have.” Wrathion favorited some sort of pomegranate tea Tong made him – he was so possessive of it he wouldn’t even allow Anduin to try it, proclaiming it “too rare to share” at one point, and scowling when Anduin had mocked him for clinging to the mug like a child with its toy – but the prince doubted they would sell anything like it here.

He looked back up when Left didn’t respond - but Left was gone, as if she had dispersed into the air like a specter. Anduin looked around quickly, momentarily forgetting to hide his face, and saw no sign of black leather nor green skin. None of the tavern customers looked alarmed, either, like they’d just seen someone disappear on the spot.

Anduin sighed loudly, shook his head, then went over to the Pandaren innkeeper Left had pointed out. Sometimes, he wondered just where Wrathion had found his Blacktalons. He knew the SI:7 was skilled, but the Black Prince’s agents were… something different.

“Excuse me.” Anduin said politely to get the Pandaren’s attention. His voice was muffled by the mask; not wanting to take an arm off of Wrathion he awkwardly tilted his shoulder up and managed to slide the mask down past his mouth with some effort. The Pandaren’s face was still down as she sorted green apples twice the size of Anduin’s fist.

“Hm?” The Pandaren looked up cheerfully then and froze. Her eyes went a bit wider. “Oh. Ah. Hello.”

The blond was alarmed by her reaction – had he done something wrong? – but he realized it must have been the recognizable outfit. He wished he had his cloth, now that they were out of the mountains and out of danger – for now – but knew that the garb was, too, recognizable, and the leather get-up would have to do for now.

“May I please rent a room for the night?” He smiled at her, eager to show he wasn’t as brooding as the Agents were. “If you have one on the highest floor, that would be best.” Anduin didn’t want the commotion that would no doubt slowly rise in pitch downstairs to wake Wrathion.

The pandaren tilted her head at him. “I’ve never had one of you rent a room before!” She exclaimed, and her wariness dropped from her face. Anduin was relieved, and once again reminded why he enjoyed the pandaren people; they were so quick to look past judgment.

The innkeeper looked down and shuffled through her apron. There was a faint jingling.

“Only one bed, right?”

Anduin went to nod – then hesitated and shook his head. “Two.”

The pandaren only nodded and took her hand from her apron, her paw clutched around a key. “Alright! Well, you’re in luck. Top room is open.” She went to hand Anduin the key.

“Ah – if you could just - ” He shifted Wrathion gently then splayed out his fingers. Amused, the pandaren put the key in-between the crook of his fingers and he clutched it into a fist.

“Y’know, I had one of you folks cause a commotion a bit ago!” The pandaren went back to sorting the food. “Mighta’ got into some sorta’ scuffle by the way he was looking. He was hollering in the morning from the storeroom – hah! Someone had locked him in there.” She clucked her tongue. “Wouldn’t even tell me what happened. He just bolted. Dunno where. Anyway!” She smiled at him, then pointed towards the stairs. “Up on the very very top is your room. Door should be locked.”

Anduin smiled back at her. “Thank you.”

The blond headed towards the stairs. Wrathion groaned lowly.

“We’re almost there,” Anduin whispered, then started up the stairs – and winced. He regretted not having his cane, now; as he walked up, his right leg began to shake again, as it had on the cliff.

Anduin set his jaw and tried to look passed it, and leaned heavily on the bannister.

Just a couple more steps…

He rounded the last bend of stairs and the door was at the top. Anduin sighed, relieved, and fit the key in the door. He bumped it open with left hip and went inside, closing it behind them with his heel.

It wasn’t the largest room he’d slept in, but it was still comfortable. Two beds, large and plush, were pressed up at the far end of the wall, and a steady stream of fresh air, heavy with the smell of food, hurried in from the open, consecutive slots in the wood that encircled the entire room. A plain desk sat to the side.

Anduin went to one of the beds. Cautiously, gingerly, he unraveled his arms from Wrathion and set him down, sinking to his knees at the side of the bed so he could get on the dragon’s level.

Now he could finally start healing the Black Prince. Anduin was eager to, worried that Wrathion’s condition was deteriorating; the wounds he’d seen in the cave were bad, but now that he would have the chance to study them up close, he only assumed they’d look worse.

Wrathion groaned again and his rolled up wings went limp against his sides, sprawling out on the blankets. Anduin frowned and stroked the Prince’s head once.

“It would be easier for me to look at your wounds if you were human,” Anduin murmured. Wrathion did not respond; he only readjusted his angular head on the blankets the slightest amount and went still again. The Alliance prince frowned.

“I’ll try to make you feel better. I promise. But I really do need you to shift.”

Wrathion sighed. Smoke, thick and slow, enveloped his small form and spread out, elongating and widening along the bed with reaching, finger-like ends.

Anduin watched quietly. Usually the Prince’s transformation was quick, an afterthought, but now it was sluggish, strained, the smoke near the consistency of sludge. It was obviously taking Wrathion some effort.

Yet the smoke stilled after a long, tense moment - and dispersed.

Wrathion, in his human form, was laying on his back, his arms awkward at his sides as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. His eyes were still fused shut. The Prince took a shaky breath, grimaced, revealing his sharpened teeth stained with his own blood, then went still again.

Anduin swallowed. Wrathion looked as bad as he had in the cave, if not worse. His outfit, so carefully crafted in its extravagance and its details so thorough, was ruined. Tears, splits, and blood marks were scattered along every inch of the dragon’s clothes.

The prince looked over Wrathion’s wounds, then. The bruise blooming along his right eye had extended down his cheek and up his temple, blotching his sable skin with mustard yellow and thick purple.

Wrathion’s breathing was worrisome as well; it was raspy, and the effort to take a breath on the dragon’s part was painfully obvious, for each inhale and exhale was a shudder, each with a certain hesitance about it. All the signs pointed to broken ribs, bones that were unable to be set.

Not like Wrathion’s sprained left wrist. That would be easy enough to heal, Anduin supposed.

But Wrathion’s right arm-…

Anduin’s eyes drifted down to it warily. He grimaced.

It was just as twisted as he had remembered; the dragon’s palm, which should have been face-down, was tilted sideways, nearly swiveled up to face the ceiling, thanks to the lower half of the split bones in the Prince’s forearm being forcibly turned around. The break itself, right in the middle of his lower arm, was also so displaced that the latter half of the broken forearm, the half that had been twisted, jut out, nearly breaking the skin and making Wrathion look like he had a second elbow.

Anduin wouldn’t be able to snap that back in place easily. He stared at it, clenching his jaw. He’d set a handful of bones before, but nothing as terrible as Wrathion’s arm.

The prince sighed through his nose and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. That injury would be the most difficult to tackle… as long as Wrathion didn’t have worse internal injuries that Anduin couldn’t see with his eyes.

The blond flicked his eyes over the other prince again, frustrated. The blood on the thin, fresher cuts had dried, at least – but the cuts themselves were still open. Anduin frowned. That was odd. They were small, and not too deep into the flesh; they should have closed during the hours of the flight.

He pushed aside some of the torn cloth against the dragon’s chest, eyeing the three deep claw marks slashes against the skin there. Those could use the bandages.

Anduin let go of the ruined shirt and flicked his gaze up to Wrathion’s face again. The great Black Prince looked so weak and pathetic that Anduin’s chest soured and twisted.

“Thank you,” Anduin said, grateful that Wrathion had forced himself to transform for him. Wrathion only made a low ‘mm’ in the back of his throat as a response.

Anduin leaned forward. He brushed the Prince’s black bangs from his face, then set his hand against the dragon’s forehead to check his temperature for signs of fever, which would be a flag for infection. The open cuts were worrisome.

Wrathion felt hot – but he was a dragon. He was always hot. Anduin dropped his hand.

The door creaked open. Anduin startled, instinctually moving his body so it blocked the Black Prince from view, but soon relaxed when he saw Left trudging towards him, food in hand.

She shoved the food and bandages at him. He smiled at her, a tinge nervous, then gestured towards the desk. “I’m sorry – could you put it over there? Thank you, Left.”

The orc muttered something unintelligible and did as he asked.

“Thank you, agai-”

“I’ll be guarding outside.”

The door slammed closed. Anduin slouched his shoulders.

At least the food was here. The prince got to his feet and limped over, his mouth watering, unbidden, at the rich smells of butter, seasonings, and tea.

He looked over the tray quickly, then opened up the top to a small black ceramic pot. Steam billowed out from its top; the broth he’d ask for Wrathion was inside, a gentle brown in color with shallots and thin onions sprinkled in for flavor. Anduin smiled, pleased, then look around for the tea -… there it was, off to the side, in a large white mug, near the pile of white bandages. Next to it was a covered plate of noodles.

Oh. Left had gotten him something, even though he hadn’t asked. The prince was touched at the gesture, but he would eat later.

Grabbing the pot of broth first, leaving its cover behind, as well as the roll of bandages, Anduin made his way back to the bed where Wrathion lay still, and sat on its side next to the Prince. The bed creaked gently underneath the added weight. Anduin tossed the roll of bandages to the side to use later.

Wordlessly, Anduin unlatched the large spoon from where it hung along the bowl’s side, attached by a thin chain, then leaned forward and patted the dragon’s face once.

“Wrathion, I have food.”

A hardly-audible groan.

Anduin scooted closer. He touched the dragon’s face again, more insistently, but not hard enough to harm him. “Wrathion. Food.”

Wrathion’s left eye slit open. The red glow, usually vibrant, was dull.

Anduin gestured with the spoon to the pot. “You have to eat. This will make you feel better.”

Wrathion stared at him blearily. His eye slowly looked down at the broth, then drifted back up to Anduin’s face again.

The Alliance prince scooped up the broth in the spoon. “I’m going to have to feed you, though… you can’t use your hands.”

Wrathion scrunched up his face and leaned his head back deep into the pillows.

The dragon tried to lift his left arm with the sprained wrist – maybe to prove Anduin wrong, the prince wasn’t quite certain - and it shook the moment it lifted from the bed. The dragon swallowed, held it up for a moment longer -… then winced and allowed it to fall back down again.

Wrathion scowled weakly and looked away. Anduin frowned, abandoned the spoon in the broth and cupped the dragon’s chin in his hand; he tilted Wrathion’s face up so that he could look at him.

The dragon stared back, a certain glowering wariness to his look, but underneath the expression Anduin could see pain and exhaustion deep in the glow of red and in the corners of his eye.

Wrathion did not pull away.

Anduin looked back at him hard. He was no stranger to the Black Prince’s great ego; he realized what this was about. Suddenly the Prince’s evasion to the Shrine of Seven Stars made sense as well.

“No one’s here to see you like this,” he said. “I promise.”

Wrathion hesitated. His eye flickered from Anduin to settle on the door behind the blond.

“Left’s even standing guard. It’s just you and me in here, Wrathion,” Anduin murmured. Outside was the sizzling of food, the far-away calls of the white hawks, and the muted talking of traders -… but that all fell away into static, silent noise. All the blond could focus on was Wrathion’s strained breathing, his hesitance, the way the breeze from the slots curled at his matted, bloodied hair.

Finally, the Black Prince slid his eye back to Anduin again. Anduin smiled, with all of the reassurance of a friend to be trusted. “No one will see but me-… and that shouldn’t bother you too much.”

Wrathion scoffed – but the moment he did a cough racked him, the slight huffing of breath even too much to do without causing his body to ache.

Anduin stiffened at the show of pain. The Light flickered instinctually into his fingertips, which still rested along the dragon’s jaw.

But there was no need for healing, not now; the cough left him, and Wrathion’s shoulders slouched.

It must have settled something for the dragon. Wrathion set his mouth in a thin frown and the vague sense of annoyance and defiance fell from his face; he just looked exhausted. He fixed Anduin with a lidded stare and nodded at the prince once, quick, giving his assent.

The Light misted away from Anduin’s fingers, and he smiled at Wrathion again. “It will make you feel better,” he said, as he dropped his hand from Wrathion’s jaw, before he refilled the spoon with the broth.

“Mm.”

Anduin brought the spoon to Wrathion’s dark lips. The dragon hesitated; the blonde quirked a brow at him.

With a low grumble the dragon parted his mouth, and Anduin tilted the tablespoon of broth in - … only for Wrathion to splutter and lurch forward as if to spit it out.

The blond quickly grabbed the dragon’s jaw, clacked his mouth closed and tilted his head back at angle, forcing him to swallow.

Wrathion slouched back onto the pillow again with a grimace. Anduin dropped his hand and refilled the spoon once more.

“That wasn’t too hard, was it?” The prince said, his smile twisting wryly. Wrathion glowered at him. “Just don’t be difficult.”

Wrathion said nothing, but managed to pile up enough strength to deepen his glare. Anduin grinned, muffled a laugh that threatened to escape him, and raised the spoon again.

Thankfully, after the first few difficult spoonfuls of Wrathion having trouble swallowing and Anduin having to tilt his head back for him, the dragon managed to relax himself enough to be able to eat without gagging and the broth was soon gone.

The ceramic spoon clacked against the empty bottom of the pot as Anduin set it back inside. He was glad that he’d managed to make Wrathion eat it in its entirety – if Anduin knew one thing, it was that food made those weak strong, even as something as simple as broth.

But for now, Wrathion’s eye was drooping; his head swayed from right to left and back again. Anduin bit back a grin. Certainly food made one stronger later, but a full stomach meant sleep now.

“Go to sleep, Wrathion,” Anduin said with a gentle laugh and then, after placing the empty bowl on the ground, leaned forward and began unlatching Wrathion’s ruined pauldrons from his shoulders. The Black Prince didn’t protest, only sighed and closed his eye, as Anduin lifted both of them off and set them to the side, then looped the leather sash up and off of the dragon, careful to slide it away from the broken ribs.

A low noise rumbled from the dragon’s throat, but he soon went still and, though his breath was still shaky, it settled into the deep repetition of sleep.

Good. He needed rest. Anduin rubbed at his eyes, yawned himself – he was exhausted - and suddenly remembered the tea. He looked over at the tray where the steam still rose from the cup. He would just have to give it to Wrathion when he woke up.

But now that Wrathion was asleep, Anduin could work at healing him. The small cuts along his skin and the large gashes across his chest he’d have to deal with first; all manner of bacteria could infect him.

Could dragons… get infections? Anduin sighed, readjusted his headband and brushed his own bangs from his face – though they just fell back down. Maybe Wrathion’s burning blood would scorch out any bacteria.

Maybe.

The Alliance prince waited a moment, then closed his eyes. Ignoring his aching stomach and tired body, Anduin began to center himself behind the shadow of his eyes. Maybe the blood would, maybe the blood wouldn’t -… but Anduin couldn’t afford to take any risks.

He had never healed someone in as terrible a condition as the Black Prince; it would take all of his concentration. Anduin would start off easy with the cuts, but Wrathion’s other wounds…

Could he even do it by himself?

Anduin frowned, and tried to think passed the sudden doubt flickering at the corners of his eyes. He was talented, confident, and good-hearted, and the Light came to him as easy as a breath, but he knew well that natural talent and affinity were nothing without experience, and Wrathion’s egregious wounds might even be too much for even Anduin.

The Alliance prince opened his eyes. The Light flickered back onto his hands, stretching across his palms, extending, warm, across his forearms. It might be too much, but he could still try.

Anduin leaned over, the Light trailing curls from his arms, and grabbed the thick bandages he’d tossed to the side of the bed. He unrolled a large trail from the ribbons, cut it at the end, and, slowly, swept his glowing palm over one of the bandage’s sides. The cloth radiated for a moment before dimming down.

Pleased with his work, the blond turned back to Wrathion. He unbuckled and lifted off the scaled tabard, placed it gently to the side, then pushed aside the ripped cloth of Wrathion’s shirt to get a wider angle at the terrible gashes. As gently as he could, placed the Light-enchanted bandages, the once-glowing side down, on the thick, ripe gashes against the Black Prince’s chest.

Wrathion inhaled sharply as Anduin pressed the bandages down into his flesh to make sure they would stick and stay. The blond paused, looked up warily, but saw that he had not awoken the dragon.

He went back to making sure the bandages were stable, then smiled brightly. Good – that should shield them from infection for now, and heal them at the same time, though albeit slower than real-time healing that Anduin was about to do with the smaller cuts.

But the gashes would have taken much more time and energy to heal… and the smaller cuts would be easier, though equally as worrisome.

Anduin placed his hands on the Black Prince’s face and began to heal, settling in for a long bout of concentration, while his food went cold.

—-

Sabellian had lost them.

He dove down one of the last slopes of the mountain, his claws curled up tight underneath him, and swept his head back and forth in a near frenzied-like motion. Smoke and the occasional bout of red flame gusted from his open, snarling mouth; the snow melted beneath him where he flew passed.

The dragon tilted back up to a parallel angle to the ground. Down in these lower mountains, snow was less prominent, and that human’s white gryphon would have flashed against the darker rock -… but Sabellian saw no feathers, no flicker of white flying away. His orange eyes burned.

With a frustrated snarl he slammed himself down on an outcrop of a cliff, the first mountain of the range; rocks flew off from the impact. Below him yawned the endless yellow plains that composed the rest of the Summit’s landscape.

His wings still splayed out, Sabellian let loose a gout of flame in to the air, so hot and angry that in the red were a dozen other intertwining colors: yellow, orange, green, even purple and black.

The dragon had been so – he slammed his clubbed tail into the side of the mountain, and the whole rock shook – close.

Sabellian hurled his tail into the rock again. A large slab of dark earth slid from the outcropping and plummeted to the ground.

The Black Prince, that stupid, worthless, whiny lizard, had been that close to telling him. And when he’d escaped Sabellian had been that close to grabbing them, from stopping their rescue.

Another explosion of fire shot from his maw.

If that equally stupid, little blond human hadn’t distracted him -

Sabellian snarled and his claws gripped the rock hard.

“Idiot,” he chided of himself, smoke hissing from his teeth.

He’d allowed himself to be lured in by that other prince. Allowed himself to think that the other prince was genuine. Sabellian should have ripped his head off right there, but no, he was too nervous to do that, wasn’t he? Too nervous that the moment he killed someone hear the Old Gods would find him, would throttle up his taste for killing… such senseless killing as he had done before…

Sabellian had planned to kill one person – one dragon, truly – and one dragon only, out of caution. And now that whelp was gone as quickly as a breeze.

Idiot. He shouldn’t have been cautious. He should have killed the human prince. When he cracked that human guard from the cliff at the Veiled Stair, only the regular blood-lust of battle, a blood-lust he already had from beating the Black Prince into the ground, was in his head. No whispers nor mutterings. Another, weak-boned human couldn’t have hurt.

But it was too late to scold himself now. The human had distracted him, and the Black Prince was gone now for it.

Sabellian snorted. His wings folded down, neat and tight against his body. The sharp throb from the arrows lodged in his chest and shoulder began to pain again as the heat of anger fell from Sabellian’s mood; he would have to deal with them in human form later, when he had the chance. He glanced down at the small shafts with a scowl.

It was frustrating – and altogether annoying – but he had found the Prince once, and he would find the Prince again -… and next time, he would not be so polite.

The dragon glanced down at muted sounds of alarm from the ground below. Someone had seen the fire, or perhaps had nearly been crushed by the rock that had fallen.

He didn’t want to be seen; he would allow the mortals to think that Wrathion was the last of their kind… for now.

Sabellian opened his wings and jumped into the current of air. He swiveled as he caught the buoyancy of the wind and shot up and across, into the deeper mountain ranges again, abandoning his fruitless search for gryphon and riders.

It didn’t take long with Sabellian’s great wings to take him to the the cave. He alighted heavily on the outcrop, and folded his wings against himself as he trudged inside. The dragon had not been back since he’d chased the escapees from it that morning.

Ahead, in the large entrance cavern, Nasandria sat in drake form– decidedly at a safe distance – near the still-shuddering body of Talsian. Sabellian eyed the sprawled out dragon, the slashes and bites and cuts Sabellian himself had afflicted, and saw how his chest still rose and fell despite how the blood loss should have killed him hours ago.

Nasandria looked up at him as he entered the cave. The elder dragon ignored her. Wordlessly, he approached his dying son and glanced down at him without the slightest flicker of emotion in his orange eyes.

The strange energies that had curled from the dragon in his frenzy had long dissipated. Sabellian had never seen such chaotic smoke before; the mutterings had been something of the Old Gods, but the smoke from Talsian’s eyes and mouth, the way Talsian’s natural talons had warped into long, demonic, glowing claws? Intriguing and disturbing.

Talsian saw him. His head lay on its side; the drake flicked his yellow eye up at Sabellian as the elder dragon loomed above him. His jaw opened and closed like a choking fish. His whole body shuddered.

“M-my blood… hungers…” came the shaking hiss from Talsian’s mouth in a voice not his own, a voice deep, a grumble, a growl, the very rumbles of the forgotten earth. The drake’s eye flickered, and for the slimmest moment, a clearness came to him; the gloss in his gaze turned desperate, begging, as it turned towards his silent father.

The strange smoke began to curl from the corner of the drake’s eyes again and the lucidity began to vanish. Talsian shook again. “Pain… exquisite… pain…”

Sabellian placed a paw calmly on the drake’s heaving side. He had seen enough.

His snake-like neck bent, his jaws grabbed the drake’s head, and with a near-gentle twist of his mouth Sabellian snapped his son’s neck with a clear crack.

The body spasmed, then went limp. Sabellian dropped the head from his teeth and Talsian’s horns clacked against the stone floor.

Nasandria was staring at him, wide-eyed. “We could have - “

“We could have nothing, Nasandria. He couldn’t be helped.” Sabellian took his paw off of the stilled drake’s chest. The other drake glanced down at her dead brother, then back up at the elder dragon. She nodded once, slowly, but said nothing, her eyes still wide.

Together the black dragons burned the corpse. It took time – even in death black dragons hides were fairly resistant to fire – but after a while the red flames began to devour the body, sending ghostly flames to highlight the cave’s dark shadows, as graceful as a dance.

Sabellian sat hunched, staring idly at the burning corpse, at the cave mouth. Nasandria sat next to him. The flames’ heat was soft against their hard scales.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Nasandria said above the crackle and pop of the fire. “Talsian’s dead. Wrathion is gone. He hardly told us anything.” She shuffled her wings together. “Maybe we should just-”

“What? Go home? Allow ourselves to be brushed aside like beaten dogs?” Sabellian snapped. His eyes had not left the corpse, which had disappeared among the roar of the flames. The stench was overwhelming, but still he did not move. He needed to watch. “I think not. The ‘Black Prince is weak. We will find him again.” The elder dragon gripped his claws against the stone and it whined beneath him.

The frustration rose again in his chest; he had had the element of surprise when visiting his little brother upon the Veiled Stair, but now that he’d lost the whelp and Wrathion knew he was here, the tiny snake would be hatching plans and schemes to protect himself and harm Sabellian.

Sabellian was calmed by the fact, however, that Wrathion was weak, near-comatose. He would not be planning anything for a while-… giving Sabellian himself a chance to think.

He thought back to the human prince and hissed. “A human prince was the downfall. Ludicrous!” Sabellian murmured. “His friend. How does that insignificant, stuck-up hatchling have a friend?” Smoke plumed from Sabellian’s nose. It was ridiculous. Absurd. How stupid did the human have to be to follow the dragon so blindly? The elder dragon snorted again, without humor.

“Oh, the Black Prince is no doubt a son of Deathwing if he has such a devout follower,” he mumbled. “Sinestra or no, his purple coloration and cleverness is-”

Sabellian paused. A thought had occurred to him.

“That lying human-child will be with him. Hah! He was stupid enough to tell me who he was. Little fool.”

Nasandria turned her head and frowned at him. “Just because we know who he is -”

“An Alliance prince will run back to his pride of lions, Nasandria.”

Nasandria tilted her head – then understood. “Ah. But we can’t just burst into an Alliance -”

“We will need to plan accordingly.” Sabellian said. He was once again glad, at least, that Wrathion had been reduced to a whimpering, bloody lizard; it gave Sabellian time to scheme his own plots.

They said nothing for a time, yet Sabellian saw something was bothering his daughter by the way she kept shifting her weight and stretching her wings. It became annoying.

“What, Nasandria? Say what’s on your mind before I get angrier at your incessant moving about!”

The drake locked her jaw.

“How did Talsian… get like that?” She asked. “He… he seemed fine before the Stair.”

Sabellian nodded. The drake had seemed fine; he had not muttered in his sleep or stared off into space, unseeing, nor had a sudden thirst for blood. It had worried the elder dragon, too, wondering how Talsian had fallen into corruption so quickly and dramatically… though the answer was clear when it had come to him when he had helped chain the drake to the wall.

“His wounds weakened him, Nasandria – not the ones I gave him, no. The one the human guard did.” The fire was dying now; black dragons’ flames were quick and brutal, hotter even than the red dragons’. It had not taken long for Talsian’s body to burn beneath it.

“I can only imagine that is why - his guard was down. The corruption was able to find him, then.” For the first time in the conversation he turned his great head to look down at the smaller drake. “And we must be cautious ourselves.”

Nasandria nodded. Sabellian glanced back to the fire. He was regretting only bringing two other drakes with him… especially now that one was dead. The dragon had not expected this charade to be so annoyingly complicated.

Yet did he have time to send for back-up from Outland? The flight from the Blasted Lands to Pandaria had taken a great deal of time, even with hard flying, and by the time more dragons arrived Wrathion could be clear-headed and ready to hide again – and this time, Sabellian had no robotic whelp to track him down with.

He glanced sidelong at Nasandria.

The drake was fierce; it was why he had brought her. Certainly he could have brought Samia, his last remaining fully-grown daughter, the only one who had survived Gruul’s rampage on the elder dragons of Sabellian’s brood, but he had needed someone to watch over the family while he was gone.

Yet Nasandria’s fierceness may not be needed now – not yet. Sabellian had already lost Talsian; perhaps he could use his daughter for a… better advantage.

“Do you know where the Badlands are, Nasandria?” He asked with the nonchalance of a casual conversation. The drake shook her head. “The middle of the Eastern Kingdoms. Not an entirely scenic place – it will no doubt remind you of the dryness of Blade’s Edge.”

Nasandria looked at him. “Why are you asking?”

Sabellian stood. The fire was a mere smoldering flicker now; only Talsian’s ashy skeleton remained. In respect, the large dragon bent his head in a deep bow towards the remains, his nose brushing the floor, before he straightened again.

“I will continue this charade on Pandaria alone. You, my daughter, will be going to the Badlands.”

Nasandria gawked at him. “What? That’s – no! I will stay with you, father -”

“It wasn’t an open discussion,” Sabellian snapped at her, then turned and walked from the cave, the afternoon sun shining bright against his reflective scales.

Nasandria bowed to Talsian then followed him. “Why the Badlands? Surely you… you need me here -”

“Not now. If the little human-child will take his ‘friend’ to a fort, then our surprise attacks mean nothing in the way of stone, guarded walls. It will have to be done as a scheme… not particularly violent.” He stretched out his wings. “And so one dragon is easier to hide than two.” Sabellian looked at her critically. “You must have heard him whimpering about the Badlands when I was… interrogating him.”

“Well. Yes.”

“Titan technology. Intriguing, isn’t it?” Sabellian looked out among the mountains. “What created us will fix us. I suppose it makes sense… but enough of my rambling; I’m even boring myself. You will go to the Badlands and you will investigate the Black Prince’s origins. If this does not end well for me, then at least you might find something that might save our Flight. The Reds found the technology there – surely there’s still some remainder of what they did to him left.”

“And if there isn’t?”

“Well. Then you will have had a nice tour of the Eastern Kingdoms.”

Nasandria began to glare at him, but Sabellian turned his head and snarled. He was in no mood for back-talk today. The drake bent her head submissively, evading his eyes.

“Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes, father.”

“Good. First we must find the little automatons at the Veiled Stair again. You can contact me then as you make your journey.”

Nasandria, at least, looked the tiniest bit relieved at having some way of communication. “Of course.”

Sabellian lifted his wings and took off into the air, the snow billowing out from underneath his feet. Nasandria was quick to follow.

The two turned in the direction of the Veiled Stair once more, and disappeared among the high clouds, away from the eyes of unknowing mortals.

—-

A loud crack of thunder woke Anduin from his sleep.

He jolted up, eyes wide, as the tavern shook from the boom of sound. The entire room seemed to rattle underneath him.

Oh. It was a thunderstorm; the heavy drumming of the rain hitting the roof gave it away. The prince relaxed, gently easing down his tense shoulders, then glanced out at the window slots.

The slim look-out they’d given of the Valley was utterly blinded out by the heavy torrent of rain; only a small amount of it had managed to get inside of the open room, collecting a small puddle near the sill. Anduin supposed it must have been from the sloping roof, typical of the Pandaren’s architecture, that kept the water away.

Anduin turned back – then realized with a start he was still at the side of Wrathion’s bed, his arms sprawled out against the dragon’s shoulders; he must have fallen asleep when healing the Black Prince. Somehow he’d managed not to slip from his awkward swiveled sitting position on the side – his hips began to prickle as the feeling came back to them - but his bangs were stuck against his forehead as if his head had been face down.

Anduin tore himself back, his face hot with embarrassment. Wrathion hadn’t seem to have woken at all, not from Anduin falling asleep on him nor from the storm; he was in the same position Anduin had remembered last seeing him in, his head and torso propped up against the pillows.

Healing Wrathion’s open wounds had been.. more difficult than Anduin had hoped. The cuts had closed sluggishly, seaming back together with a snail’s pace while the little wounds should have been flowing quickly together, a practice Anduin had done dozens of times before, easily.

One cut therefore ended up taking the energy of five. It had been frustrating. Even when he had managed to heal one, it left an ugly fallow bruise, as thin as the cut had been, and after painstakingly healing one of such bruises Anduin had thought it best to leave his energy for the other open wounds rather than drain it on fixing Wrathion’s appearance.

No wonder Anduin had fallen asleep. He hadn’t slept or eaten – the noodles still sat cold - since leaving Lion’s Landing, and the healing work was difficult, even in Anduin’s skilled hands.

Anduin stretched up his arms, squeezing his eyes shut and holding back a yawn. Another shake of thunder rippled out from the storm; the ceramic pot, still on the floor, clattered to its side.

The blond ignored it. He clasped his hands together, rested them on his lap and leaned forward to look over Wrathion. He’d managed to heal the wounds on the dragon’s face, neck, and the upper half of his arms –… if heal was the right word, he thought bitterly, eyeing the thin bruises.

Anduin sighed, frustrated again with himself, loud through his nose. The only thing that made sense about the cuts’ conditions was that the weapon that made them (Anduin supposed a dagger, thanks to the slimness of the slashes) was either imbued with some sort of demonic enchantment or was made from one of the rarer metals that caused different effects on the skin.

Anduin guessed the latter. He brushed a thumb over one of the curdled-red bruises across Wrathion’s cheek, sill frustrated but gentle with his touch, and frowned thoughtfully. Velen had taught him that about the metals. Anduin dropped his hand and brushed his bangs, still stuck to his forehead, across his headband.

Much of Azeroth’s metals were relatively “harmless,” and only dealt damage from their sharpened sides and from different enchantments. There was Saronite – the mere thought made Anduin’s skin crawl – which was bubbled with the blood of Yogg’saron and caused madness when in direct, lengthy contact… yet Velen had not mentioned anything about the metal making healing difficult.

That metal, Anduin remembered then, was Fel Iron, which was warped with demonic energies. The ancient draenei had patiently explained how even the slightest of demonic presence in a wound would make it difficult for the Light to heal it – for demonic meant Chaos, the Light’s direct opposition. And Fel Iron, he’d said, was a cursed and fearsome metal for it.

And Fel Iron was from Outland.

It was the only thing that made sense. The dragons were from Outland… surely they had weapons made of Fel Iron.

Anduin glared at the cuts. Of course it had to be the cursed metal. It couldn’t have been easy.

He glanced down at Wrathion’s left arm, trying to force the frustration to billow off. Oh – here was some good news. Anduin smiled. The cuts that had remained when Anduin had fallen asleep had scabbed over.

The tavern shook again. Wrathion sighed loudly, his very lungs sounding like they were shaking as well, then stilled again.

Anduin readjusted the bandage over the dragon’s chest, making sure it was stable, before standing. Gently, gently, he slid the thick, fluffed blankets from underneath the Prince’s torso and put them on top of him, careful not to press it down across his broken chest. The Prince was deep in sleep and did not notice.

Anduin stared at him. At least in sleep Wrathion might be able to escape some pain.

For a moment the prince was tempted to continue healing… but he dismissed the idea. It would be a waste of time. As much as he wanted his friend to feel better, even Anduin Wrynn had his limits, especially when he hadn’t slept or eaten and his energy was sparking out.

Anduin glanced at the empty bed to the side. Before sleeping, though, he had to take care of something else.

The creaking of the floorboards underneath his feet was muffled by the heavy rain as Anduin made his way to the closed door. His leg protested; he ignored it.

“Left?” He said, lowly, as he opened the door and peeked his head out.

The orc was standing on the step below the door, her hand clutched on the scuff golden crossbow, her eyes trained down the stairs. The weapon was loaded and ready.

Her eyes did not move to look at him, but she did give a grunt of greeting to the blond prince.

Anduin smiled at her, eased his way out into the stairway and closed the door behind him with a gentle click. The thunder grumbled outside again. The orc appeared unphased; Anduin hoped, again, that the dragon inside the room would continue to be, too.

“I have a suggestion,” the prince began, and frowned as the orc’s eyes hardened. “Please, you have to hear me out.”

Left finally turned her head to him. “What is it?”

Anduin straightened his back, though allowed himself to lean his right shoulder on the door behind him for balance. His cane was still with the supplies that had been on the gryhon’s back.

He didn’t smile, but looked at the orc with earnest. “We can’t stay here, and we can’t go back to the Tavern.” The orc stared at him. “But we can’t keep moving Wrathion around from place to place, either. His wounds would just get worse. He needs a place to rest.”

“What’s your point?” Left asked with a grumble.

“We could go to Lion’s Landing.” He pressed on quickly as the orc began to glare. “I know it sounds … biased, but it would be safe, and I would have all the supplies I needed to heal him. There’s guards everywhere - … especially trying to follow me around… and Sabellian couldn’t possibly want to try to attack an Alliance keep by himself.” The more he spoke the more it made sense. Where else did Left think to take her Prince?

The bodyguard squinted at him hard, her tusks going lopsided as she frowned. The thunderstorm outside groaned, and the rain crushing against the roof above had become a relaxing static noise in the background of their conversation.

Left glanced at the door behind Anduin, then back at the blond.

“No one could know he was there,” she said, finally. “If the Horde knew that the Black Prince was staying in an Alliance keep, they’d be insulted. Some champions were annoyed enough at having you being a guest at the Tavern and under His Majesty’s protection.”

Anduin nodded. He was quick to remember the lingering, sidelong glances from some of the Horde champions who visited the black dragon, and then the full-on glares from others.

“I know. But it’d be nice to return the favor of playing the host,” Anduin said with a small smile. Left grunted.

“This isn’t about favors. The Prince is careful to remain neutral. He pushed his luck with you – like I just said.” She looked annoyed.

“But you have to agree it makes sense, going to Lion’s Landing,” Anduin said, raising a brow at the orc. He knew it made sense; his comment was not a question.

“Mm.” Again her eyes flicked to the door then to Anduin. “… Fine. We’ll go to Lion’s Landing. But if anyone finds out about the Prince – a simple guard, your father – I will have your head.”

Anduin had to bite back a smile. Yes! He’d convinced her. He nodded at her quickly. “I won’t let anyone find out.” He was good at that sort of thing… though something sour twisted at the back of his throat. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to lie to his father about anything.

Though he doubted it.

He turned to go back in the room – but hesitated, glancing back to Left.

“Left?”

“What?”

“Why are you doing this?” He rephrased his question, realizing it was vague. “I mean – why are you working for Wrathion?”

Left stared at him. Her gloved hand tightened slightly on the trigger of the crossbow. She said nothing for a long time, though the air in the slim stairway became heavier.

“Even orcs like me grow tired of war, little prince,” she said, finally. “Wrathion’s promised a world unlike Azeroth has seen, and I will stand by his side till my death until his dream is achieved.”

Anduin frowned at her. He’d assumed, maybe, that he was giving the Blacktalons gold, just as he was luring in his champions initially with promises of enchanted gems and other things to augment their strength.

But Left seemed so genuine…

And Wrathion had always spoken so genuinely about a world of peace – a united world – that Anduin had believed him utterly, despite the fact they always disagreed with how to go about making a world like the one the dragon spoke of. He’d always assumed the Blacktalons didn’t necessarily agree with him, that gold was on their minds, but…

His tired mind began to protest. He needed sleep; he’d think about this later.

“Goodnight, Left,” Anduin said, and went inside the room, closing the door behind him.

He was so tired that his stumble to the other free bed next to the Black Prince’s was not just from his bad right leg.

The blond flopped face-down on the plush Pandaren bed, unstrapped his shoulder-pads and stripped off his skin-tight shirt, and wrapped the covers tight around him lazily. He turned his face sideways in the dragon’s direction to keep an eye on him as the rain poured outside; the thunderstorm seemed to be rolling away, for the next lightning strike sounded more mute, a low annoyed grumble compared to the fierce explosions from the moments before.

Wrathion hadn’t moved. Anduin sighed deeply, closed his eyes, and went to sleep the moment his eyes saw darkness.

—-

Wrathion was cold.

And it was very, very dark.

Muggy flashes of images went bright in his mind’s eye before curling away like smoke seconds later, only to be replaced by another vision as vague as the last. The quick successions, shifts, flickers of colors and scenes… it was disorienting, dizzying, and he wanted to make it stop.

But he couldn’t. There were images of sharp teeth, a golden disc, broken runestones. Orange eyes, then blue. The edge of a shimmering wing, mountains like needles, a toothy mouth full of lava.

And he was cold. So cold…

—-

It was early morning.

Anduin had gotten up, dressed, and had finally eaten the cold noodles from the night before. Wrathion was still sound asleep, covered so tightly by the large beige Pandaren blankets only his head and shoulders stuck out almost comically from the fluff.

A heavy knocking echoed from the door. Anduin glanced over, the last mouthful of noodles in his mouth.

“Get out here! We’re leaving in five minutes!” Came Left’s muffled yell from beyond the wood. The blond swallowed, set down the empty bowl and readjusted his headband for the third time before standing up from the side of his bed.

“Alright, Wrathion, it’s time to get up,” he said with a yawn, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. He went over to the Black Prince and peeled back the blankets slowly. The blond had checked him immediately upon waking up fifteen minutes ago, bleary-eyed. The fallow bruises remained, but Wrathion’s dark skin had become slightly ashen in color. He hadn’t had too much time to think about it before Left had knocked on the door for the first time and yelled at him to get ready.

Anduin frowned. Wrathion was shaking slightly, as he had in the cave – but it wasn’t cold in the room. The morning air was light and warm.

Instant concern bloomed sharp in the back of Anduin’s throat and, brushing Wrathion’s hair from his face he set his hand against the dragon’s forehead as he had done the night before -

And tore his hand back immediately, eyes wide. Wrathion wasn’t hot. He was freezing.

“Time’s up! I’m getting the gryphon. Meet me outside in two minutes!” Left again, but Anduin hardly heard her. Why was Wrathion so cold?

Cautiously he extended his hand and placed it once more against the dragon’s forehead, then down at his jaw. He was so cold and clammy to the touch.

This – this couldn’t be a fever. Anduin’s mind raced. A body made a fever when its temperature rose as the antibodies fought the infection.

But that was with humanoid bodies. Wrathion’s regular draconic heat would have caused a bodily shutdown in most mortals. It must have been different for dragons.

But Anduin Wrynn had no idea about dragon health. Was this cold temperature a sign of an infection? Was it something else altogether? He glanced down at the scabbed-over cuts on Wrathion’s left arm – and his mouth went dry. The cuts were swollen, near green in color.

Wrathion’s body hadn’t healed itself at all. The cuts looked infected. If Anduin hadn’t fallen asleep -

Anduin took his hand off of the dragon and ran it over his own face. He tried to calm down, but the frustration at himself, at believing those cuts on the arm were healed, that he’d fallen asleep, that he didn’t know enough about his own friend’s physicality to realize what was going on was building a deep-seated panic in the pit of his chest.

Maybe he could wake the dragon, at least. If they – if they got to Lion’s Landing, where there was more than enough solvents, healing herbs, and other healing supplies…

For the third time Anduin felt the dragon’s temperature. Wrathion continued to shake.

“Wrathion?” He asked, lowly, sending a quick prayer to the Light that this time, unlike in the cave, the dragon would wake quickly and shift into his dragon form without stalling.

To Anduin’s surprise Wrathion opened his good eye instantly. He locked it onto Anduin. The red had been dull last night, but this morning it was hardly glowing at all.

Anduin forced a smile, hiding away his concern. “We’re going. I can’t carry you like that,” he said, gesturing to Wrathion’s body. The regular snark was in the blond’s voice, but it sounded shaky; he hoped the dragon wouldn’t catch on to his anxiety or frustration.

“I’m very cold,” Wrathion muttered.

It was the first thing he’d said since the flight yesterday. Anduin stared at him, then nodded. “I know. But I’ll try to keep you warm on the flight.”

The prince was expecting him to have to keep goading the dragon to shift…

But Wrathion groaned suddenly and the smoke enveloped him with a twirl. Now a whelp, the Black Prince slouched his head against Anduin’s arm and groaned again.

Anduin scooped him up, not giving him the chance to shift back into human form again, making sure to grab Wrathion’s ruined pauldrons as well as his scaled tabard that he’d taken off last night and slinging them over his shoulder before heading downstairs and outside to the stables with a heavy, burning limp. The blond tried hard not too get too anxious. But Wrathion’s scales were cold, even through Anduin’s leather clothes, and the way the dragon had shifted so suddenly… it was unnerving.

And Anduin didn’t know how to heal it.

Left was standing beside the white gryphon. The beast’s injured leg was healed; a heavy bandage was wrapped tight up and around her paw.

The orc must have seen Anduin’s concern on his face.

“What?” Her eyes glanced down to the whelp, then up at Anduin. The sun was just rising, sending a gentle yellows and pinks across the clear sky, and not many people, not even in the farming community, were up this early, not yet; the prince hadn’t thought to hide the dragon from view as he had before.

“I think he – I think he might have an infection,” Anduin said, slowly, unsure. The orc narrowed her eyes.

“You think?” She grabbed him by the collar and swung him up on the gryphon’s back as if he weighed nothing. Left hopped up in front of him and grabbed the reins.

“He’s freezing. I just – I don’t know enough about dragons to know what’s going on. Do you?” He was loath to admit it. He held on to the orc’s side as the gryphon jostled herself to a running start, her limp only slight, before taking off into the air.

Left turned her in the direction of the south; Lion’s Landing was a couple hours ride away. Surely Wrathion could hold for that long…

“No. I don’t.” Left glanced back at the Prince, eyed him cautiously, then turned back to face the front again.

“He never told you about anything like-?”

“I just said I didn’t know.”

Anduin went quiet. Maybe Wrathion would be able to tell him once they reached the Alliance fort.

Hopefully.

—-

“That’s it, up ahead!”

Anduin was relieved to finally see the white and blue pillars appear from the muggy haze of Krasarang along the coast. He was burned to a slight pink in his skin that showed from the high sun, and parched from the terrible heat.

But he didn’t quite care about that. What he cared about was that they could finally stop and Anduin could figure out what was wrong with the quivering, ever-cooling dragon who hadn’t moved in his arms since they’d left Halfhill.

“Gryphon riders ahead.” Left said. Anduin craned his head over her shoulder. Dozens of war-riders circled the bustling fort. Many of them were Wildhammer, whose skills with a gryphon were legendary; Anduin, Left, and Wrathion would be spotted soon.

“They’ll recognize my gryphon, but -” the prince paused. Idiot! He hadn’t thought of Left being an orc. “Uhm – perhaps we should sneak in. I know a good place to.”

“You know a place to sneak in.” Before they reached the beach, Left angled the gryphon to a gentle dive and landed her right on the edge of the thick, ancient forest.

“Yes,” Anduin said. Her doubt in him was starting to become annoying. Why did everyone always have to doubt him-…? But the blond shook his head and scrunched his eyes closed, focusing, before opening them again. He didn’t need to worry about that now. He just needed to get back to his room in the fort.

“Lead the way, then, prince,” Left grumbled.

The beach had come to a standstill in the never-ending skirmishes between the Horde and Alliance outposts along the coast. It was a lucky break; they didn’t have to worry about being hit by cannonballs or spells as Anduin carefully instructed Left where to go, creeping the gryphon behind the towers then to the stable. No one saw them. Even with Anduin’s strenuous instructions, he found it… too lucky. Perhaps Left was using some of the Blacktalon charm; he’d suspected the rogues had to use some sort of magic to disappear so easily into thin air.

“Alright, we’ll go on foot from here,” Anduin murmured. Left nodded, and the three eased off of the mount. “She’ll find her stall.” The bandage would be noticed, and the prince would be questioned, but he could worry about that later. “Now we just need to make it into the courtyard. There’s another entrance behind the keep that some of the workers use.”

The blond had found it during a walk around the Keep, after being driven near-stir crazy at having forced to stay in bed because of his leg all day, and had begun to use it to sneak out from his bodyguards’ noses when they weren’t looking, like he’d done the day before when going to visit the Black Prince and finding the Tavern destroyed.

It was better than mind-controlling them. He didn’t want to do that again.

They made their way through the courtyard then, ducking behind and staying quiet in the shadows, their black outfits blending in with the dark, as guards walked to and fro, before making it to the entrance. Anduin went first, then Left, and the floorboards creaked underneath them as they made their way up to the highest level of the fort that was set aside for the King, his son, and other higher officials.

Gently, Anduin eased open the door, looked both ways, and saw the hallways were empty. He gestured to Left behind him, walked with light steps to his room -

And opened the door quickly, let Left in, and shut it closed.

He went to the bed immediately and set the whelp down.

“Left – get him in human form and all the blankets around him. He needs to keep any heat he has.” A tone of authority had come into the prince’s voice.

Left nodded. Anduin went over to his dressed, pulled out his extra set of cloth garb, and went into the bathroom to change. It was nice to finally be out of the skin-tight leather; it had done its job, but it was woefully uncomfortable. He wondered how rogues and other adventurers wore it all the time non-stop.

Anduin went back out, adjusting his headband, and was glad to see Left had done what he’d asked. Wrathion was in human form again and covered up tight with blankets… and still shaking.

“I’ll need to go downstairs and find some herbs that stem infections.” It had to be an infection. What else could it have been? At least the herbs and other poultices the healers of the army kept in the overflowing storerooms might help; Anduin himself had not quite gotten that far along in his healing lessons with Velen to understand how to cure diseases… he understood how to set a bone, how to heal an open wound, but cleansing infections?

Especially a dragon’s infection?

“Stay here,” Anduin said. He had to hurry. Wrathion was loosing body heat by the hour and every minute they stood talking he could be worsening. Left nodded, and Anduin turned and exited the room, remembering to grab his cane which he’d slid off of the gryphon’s saddle, and made his way to the storerooms below, hoping his father, who may have been in the next room, did not hear his footsteps.

—-

“Left.”

The guard looked up. Wrathion was freezing. Why was it so cold? Why was he so cold?

And his whole head was dizzy; it felt like it’d be dumped into a vat of ice and shaken.

Sabellian – Sabellian had made him this way. He would have been angry if he could feel passed the ever-present pain, the chill, the agony.

Sabellian. He needed to kill Sabellian.

“Left.” His voice was a groan, a rasp. Was that his voice?

“Yes, my Prince?”

He needed to make Sabellian – he needed to make Sabellian pay. He needed - he needed to make Sabellian hurt. Yes. That was it. He had to make him hurt like Wrathion himself was hurting.

“Those Blacktalons. I sent them before Sabellian came. For the drake I saw.” Oh, he could barely speak without his lungs screaming at him. He just wanted the pain to stop. He wanted to go to sleep and not wake up for a very long time. But he had to tell his guard this. He had to make Sabellian hurt.

“… You mean the ones you sent to Blade’s Edge, my Prince?”

“Yes!” Oh, good, she remembered. “Go send more. To Blade’s Edge, Left. Make them. Make them hurt.”

He didn’t see Left nod. The agony was escalating with every word he spoke.

He wanted to sleep. His shoulders slouched, and the darkness was quick to overcome him.


	8. Chapter 8

“Thank you, Mishka!”

Anduin gave the draenei a quick wave before turning and heading back into the keep, his cane clacking against the rough stone floor. The warmth of the beach and the sharp salty air followed him as he made his way inside the courtyard then up into the interior of the fort; inside the stone walls the distant screams and hisses of the rockets and cannonballs being flung back and forth farther down along in the Wilds became a dull, quiet hum. Anduin was thankful for that.

The prince mulled over the information the draenei medic had given him as he walked up the first flight of stairs. He’d asked about setting bones – particularly about very displaced ones – as innocently as possible. Anduin needed to set Wrathion’s arm, and soon; he’d be pushing it off since arriving at Lion’s Landing two days ago, but he knew if he had waited any longer, the forearm would begin to heal in its awkward position.

Anduin made it to the top of the stairs and paused, cocking his head. It was a busy afternoon – the Horde had once again started off its goblins to shear down the ancient trees of Krasarang just this morning after three days of both sides taking a deep breath and licking their wounds, and the Alliance had responded instantly.

Most of the soldiers, then, were there in the forest -… and not inside. Anduin straightened his head; he’d heard no footsteps.

Quickly, just in case someone did end up passing by, he made his way down the hallway and ducked into one of the doorways. He paused a moment more, his head bowed, and once satisfied he wasn’t being followed by guards, Anduin turned his back to the door and looked around.

The thick smell of herbs and earth greeted him. Along the right side of the spacious room, shelves were stocked full of boxes of herbs, all a burst of color, from Lichbloom to Golden Lotus; on the left, stored more carefully, were jars and vials of liquids, some murky and others a-shine with a kind of magic glow.

The brief lull in warfare had allowed herbalists and alchemists to resupply the large medicine closet… and so no one had missed a bit of Silverleaf, a flask or two of Falling Leaves, and other assorted supplies going missing in the last two days.

Anduin sighed, and rubbed his eyes, which were bagged with grey circles. Not like anything that he’d taken had worked.

Shaking his head, he made a circuit around the closet, eyeing the herbs and flasks, weighing which ones would be the best to take and which ones would be the best to leave – he didn’t like taking these without permission, but he had no choice – and grabbing those that he ended up thinking might be the most beneficial. His satchel, which was slung over his shoulder, was heavy by the time he got back to the door, and tinkled lightly with each step from the hidden flasks inside.

Anduin lifted the flap and peered down: three vials, all different colors, a bushel of peacebloom, a handful of cinderbloom, and one Golden Lotus.

Maybe the cinderbloom would help. The prince frowned thoughtfully and smoothed back one of the fiery red petals; even through his cloth he could feel their gentle heat, a heat Wrathion desperately needed.

The dragon had not gotten any better since arriving at Lion’s Landing. His temperature had continued to drop, no matter how many blankets Anduin had piled on top of him or how close he’d been pressed to the open window with the warm sun. No flask, no herb, no tea, and no amount of Light had brought Wrathion’s heat back up, either.

Anduin, at least, had managed to heal the infected-looking cuts on the dragon’s arm, as well as the thicker claw-mark gashes across his chest, and some of the bruise along his eye… but despite that, Wrathion was hardly responsive, his skin ashy, his breath labored – ribs were a bone unable to be set –…

And he was always shivering.

Anduin was trying everything, and it was beginning to take a toll on the young prince – though he did not admit as much. Six hours of sleep in two days was not quite viable for good healing… but he was inherently nervous that if he fell asleep for too long, Wrathion would get worse.

Stifling a yawn, Anduin closed the leather flap back over the satchel. Left was keeping guard in his room; he had to hurry back with these supplies and the information Mishka had given him. First, he needed to set the dragon’s arm, and then, hope that one of these new ingredients would help bring his temperature back up.

He hoped it was enough. The prince began making his way to the stairs again, his satchel rattling. Anduin had strapped the dragon’s arm to a firm slot of wood, keeping it still by way of wrapped bandages. He’d been pushing off healing it, but the blond was aware if he didn’t snap it back into place soon that the bone and muscle there would begin to heal naturally on its own and would only make the arm worse, which had prodded today’s visit to Mishka. The draenei hardly seemed to have suspected anything – no one ever really did, besides Varian, when the prince gave his most innocent, curious smile – and Anduin was sure he could do what she had done himself…

Anduin made his way up the last flight of steps, limping heavily, then turned and started down the short hallway to his room.

He passed his father’s closed door; the prince hadn’t seen the King since he’d been home, but had been told by his bodyguards (who were relieved to see him safe after having disappeared for the third time Anduin had been at Lion’s Landing) that Varian was busy with some sort of internal trouble with the dwarves at Ironforge.

The blond wondered how that was going. Varian hadn’t been back to the dwarven capitol since he nearly slit Moira’s throat.

He shook his head. Anduin hoped it was going well. He wished he could be there, but at the same time, the prince had his own problems.

Anduin had reached his room, turned the golden handle – and found the door wouldn’t open.

“Left,” he said, his voice low. “It’s Anduin.”

There was a jingle, and the door jut open a sliver. Left peered down at him with one blue eye, saw it was him, then opened the door just enough so that he could slip inside. She cut it closed the moment he was in the room, so close she nearly caught the burned ends of his hair in the frame.

“No one was behind me,” Anduin pointed out, ruffling the back of his hair and giving the orc a vaguely amused look before heading over to the bed. Left grunted and went back to her position, her back leaned against the door and her hand held loosely over her golden crossbow.

Wrathion was propped up on the bed, which was pushed close to the sunny window. His broken arm was atop the huge mound of fluffed blankets that encased all but the top of his shoulders and his head, and his lips were parted just a sliver to reveal a fang biting down on his lower lip; a trail of gray smoke curled from the corner of his mouth. The dragon’s eyes were scrunched closed. Anduin had scrubbed the blood from Wrathion’s hair, face, and had tried to clean it from his tunic – but the Black Prince’s outfit was utterly ruined. Anduin had taken off the remaining scraps of the Wrathion’s chest-piece, leaving his pants, which were still somewhat decent, and had carefully slipped on one of his own gray tunics, which, thankfully, fit.

“You look better,” Anduin lied with a mumble, setting down the satchel on the side of the bed. Wrathion didn’t respond, though the prince hadn’t expected him to; the dragon hadn’t said much to Anduin since arriving, other than the occasional, incoherent mutter to himself, or a vague couple of words to the prince of Stormwind, before he fell back asleep.

Out of habit the blond leaned over and felt Wrathion’s forehead – it was as cold as it was when he left. Anduin frowned, then shifted through the satchel, taking out the clinking flasks and setting them aside.

“What did you get this time?” Left asked behind him.

Anduin closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. The prince just wanted to flop down in the bed and go to sleep. He was so tired. But he had to stay up – and Left, who had grown increasingly more volatile every time Anduin’s idea for healing her Prince had failed, berating him with passive aggressive comments, he didn’t need.

“Some flasks,” he said, trying to keep the temper born out of his exhaustion from his voice. Anduin knew it was because the bodyguard was worried for the dragon – it had to be – and so he shouldn’t be strife with her.

But still.

Left said nothing as Anduin pulled out the herbs he had gotten, as well. His eyes drifted to Wrathion’s skewered arm.

“I did ask one of the medics about setting bones, though,” Anduin said, his voice hesitant. “I can -”

“You asked someone for help?”

“No.” Anduin took another deep breath and forced his tensing shoulders to relax, and said in a more even voice: “I just asked basic information. She didn’t suspect anything.”

Left went quiet again, but the prince was aware she was unhappy, judging by how the sound of the metal trigger being tightened then loosened then tightened again as the orc’s fingers flexed atop it echoed behind him.

“Left, I had no choice. I didn’t know what to do. If I had held it back a day later his arm might have been permanently disfigured, and I don’t think he would have been very happy about that.” There was a snap to his words. The sound of the trigger stopped.

Anduin reached deep into the satchel then, thoroughly annoyed and wishing he wasn’t, and grabbed a heavy Elven liquor from the bottom that he’d taken from the storage in the kitchen before he had headed off to Mishka. It was a beautiful crystal bottle, in the shape of a bird with its wings outstretched, its open beak the neck of the flask where the cork was wedged inside its mouth.

The blond put his right leg on the bed to steady himself, then leaned over the Black Prince. Wrathion was sound asleep. Anduin studied him quietly. Maybe the dragon didn’t need the alcohol. His eyes drifted down to the crooked arm again. Perhaps he could just… twist it back in place quickly enough with Wrathion still -

The dragon opened his good left eye, a slim sliver. Anduin startled.

“You’re awake,” the blond said, dumbly. For a moment, he was happy - … before realizing that this was a very bad time for the dragon to have one of his brief bouts of wakefulness.

“Anduin Wrynn,” Wrathion mumbled. He shook hard, then stilled, his body going back to its regular quiver.

Anduin smiled at him. “Wrathion.” He repositioned his leg again to get a bit closer to the Black Prince. Wrathion’s eye began to flutter closed.

“I’m going to heal your arm, now,” the blond said, his voice calm, masking his exhaustion. “Then I’ll help your -” he struggled to find the right words - “… chill.”

Wrathion mumbled something incoherent. His head turned a bit more to Anduin, sinking deeper into the great cushion of pillows the prince had made for him.

“Just make -” a shudder - “it stop.”

His voice was slurred and thick, barely intelligible. His eye fixed on Anduin, and though the red gaze was gray-like and hazy, hardly focused, there was a vague sense of desperation there in the look.

Anduin stared at him; his throat tightened.

“I’m trying. You’ll be fine, I promise,” Anduin murmured, though Wrathion had already closed his eye and had seemed to lapse back into his troubled slumber.

Anduin took a deep, steadying breath – closed his eyes. Focused again. At least he’d fallen back asleep.

He grabbed the bottle and took the cork from the glass; the sharp, pungent smell of the liquor, a sort of sweet nectar scent, drifted from the crystal’s open mouth.

“This will numb the pain,” he said quietly, as he cupped the dragon’s chin in his free hand and unhinged Wrathion’s jaw to open his fanged mouth just a smidgen wider, unsure if Wrathion could hear him but saying it anyway. “It’s probably stronger than anything you’ve had, so I’m sorry if it makes you dizzy.”

Anduin lifted the crystal bottle and, as carefully as he could, poured the liquid in the dragon’s mouth. Wrathion coughed after a moment, but, as Anduin had done with the broth, he shifted the dragon’s face to force him to swallow the alcohol.

A third of the liquor was gone by the time Anduin let go of the dragon’s face and set the bottle down. Wrathion made a low grumbling noise, sighed, then seemed to go back to sleep for the second time.

Not for long, Anduin thought. He looked at the arm. Now came the hard part.

“Left, I need you to come over here,” Anduin said, as he pulled Wrathion’s broken arm away from the dragon’s torso; he needed good leverage. The orc came and stood by the side of the bed.

“Hold down his left shoulder.”

“Why?”

“When I pull this back into place, he’s going to jump up.” The blond glanced up at her, then back down at the break. His hands hovered over it, almost as if he was too nervous to touch it. The dark flesh that was not covered over by the thick gauze was swollen and red. “I’ll need twist it back first, then snap it back in place. If he moves when I’m moving it, it might just… hurt it more.”

Left nodded, rounded to the opposite side of the bed, and put her hands on the shoulder there.

“Whenever you’re ready, prince.” Her voice was emotionless.

Anduin swallowed. It wasn’t going to be too hard, he told himself. Just a quick twist then a snap. That was all.

He untied the thick gauze and unlatched the wood from Wrathion’s arm, sliding it out from underneath the break and setting it aside for later. Now that the bandages were off, Anduin could see the end of the broken bones, the very shattered, jagged edges, in the contours of the skin.

The prince placed one hand on Wrathion’s upper arm, and another on his wrist. His grip was tight.

“On the count of three, push down.”

Left nodded. Anduin steadied his breathing, and the gentle warmth of the Light bloomed in the center of his chest, calming him. The sounds of warfare from the open window, the seagulls, the far-away waves lapping up against the beach, fell away and Anduin focused.

“One… two… three!”

Anduin twisted hard. There was a wet, fleshy, snapping sound as the bottom of the forearm was twisted back upright.

Wrathion jerked forward with a choked, slurred gasp –

Or at least tried to. Left kept him pinned to the bed, and the dragon bore his teeth and yelled out in agony, a strangled sound mixed with both human and something vaguely draconic.

Someone would have heard that. Anduin’s mouth went dry.

But he had no time to think – Wrathion moved his arm, trying to pull it away from the other prince, but Anduin tightened his grip. His worry evaporated. He had to focus. His eyes flickered acutely over the break, and he saw that he’d managed to twist the end … only halfway. Wrathion’s palm was still skewered, just not as grotesquely upwards. He needed to twist again.

Anduin locked his jaw. No time to hesitate. He twisted the forearm for the second time. The dragon, smoke hissing from his teeth, writhed and yelled again, sounding on the verge of tears, but Left had him stable.

“Nearly there,” Anduin said. The palm was face-down, as it should have been. Now came snapping back the bones so that they could mend in their natural places.

The prince pulled down hard. There was a muffled clack. Wrathion lurched again, whimpered, then went still.

Anduin exhaled, relieved, his shoulders sinking down with a gentle shake as his nerves turned to jelly. He looked over the arm. Gently Anduin ran a finger over the skin, searching for a bump. But it was straight. The prince had done it.

Anduin smiled tiredly.

He looked up at the dragon despite Wrathion’s eyes being closed again. Wrathion’s mouth was twisted in a grimace.

Anduin leaned forward and squeezed the Black Prince’s shoulder. “That went… well!” He said, with a quiet laugh that was as shaky as his melted nerves felt.

Wrathion grumbled vaguely. Maybe the Black Prince would feel better from the tenuous praise.

Anduin dropped his hand then, and grabbed the wood and gauze he’d thrown to the side. The arm was set, but now it had to be stabilized. Diligently, the prince went to work casting the arm in a braced position, the wood on the bottom held tight by the thick bandages, until the entirety of Wrathion’s forearm was cast.

“There,” Anduin said with another smile. He would put it in a sling once the Black Prince had enough strength to stand again.

“Someone’s coming.” Anduin looked up and startled. Left had disappeared from the side of the bed – maybe when the prince was working on the cast. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the guard turned towards the door, crossbow at the ready.

Wrathion’s yelling – Anduin had nearly forgotten. He winced and stood, grabbing his cane. How could he explain?

A heavy, hurried knocking at the door. Left’s grip on the crossbow tightened. Anduin made a stop motion to her, putting his hand up quickly.

“Young prince! Is everything alright in there?” Came a worried voice from beyond the door. Anduin relaxed. It was only just a guard – not his father or anyone more worrisome.

“Yes, I’m fine!” He called back, sitting on the side of the bed, the danger passed. His leg was starting to throb. “I just -” His eyes flickered around the room, searching for a good lie “-hit my leg against my dresser.”

Anduin knew instantly it was a terrible lie. He rubbed his eyes - hit his leg against a dresser, really? – as Left glanced back at him with a critical look.

“… Well, alright, I guess,” the guard said, after a long moment’s silence. Anduin tried not to hear the tired disbelief in the guard’s voice. Surely the human on the other side didn’t believe him, but was forced to – because he was the prince.

It left a sour taste in his mouth – he didn’t like when the guards got in trouble with his father when he slipped passed them to visit Wrathion – but there was nothing he could do, at least in this case.

The bodyguard’s footsteps trailed away. Left visibly relaxed.

“’Hit your leg against a dresser?’ What, twice?”

Anduin huffed. “It was the first thing that came to mind!”

Left shook her head and resumed her position. Anduin ran a hand over his face and glanced back at the dragon. At least the guard hadn’t come inside, he thought.

Anduin glanced at the flasks and herbs he’d set off to the side.

Now that Wrathion’s arm was neatly cast, and the blond didn’t have to worry about it anymore, Anduin could focus on what was most worrisome about Wrathion’s condition: his chill.

Anduin grabbed one of the flasks – Warm Sun – and three of the cinderbloom, as well as an empty glass cup off of the bedside table, the bottom crusted over with the remainder of the Falling Leaves potion Anduin had tried on Wrathion last night with no effects.

He uncorked the flask and poured half inside the cup. His head swayed up and down, once; the adrenaline of healing Wrathion’s arm was wearing off, and the prince’s exhaustion was creeping back up his spine.

Would this even work? He glanced at the shivering dragon again. Anduin had healed the infected cuts. What if this was something else entirely?

Anduin eyed Left. He’d promised not to tell anyone the dragon was here, but that was before Wrathion had come down with his terrible chill. He knew he needed to ask for help.

But from whom?

Left hadn’t even responded well to Anduin asking Mishka information; the prince doubted she’d take to it again.

He shook his head. He’d ask soon – maybe when Left was in a better mood.

Anduin dropped the petals in the cup, and they sizzled hotly. He sighed, rubbed one of his eyes with the back of his hand, then turned back to the Black Prince.

“Alright, Wrathion,” he said, holding back a yawn. “Let’s try this.”

—-

Baron Sablemane ripped the venomous, dripping fangs from the still-twitching yellow wasp the size of his torso and flung the bug off to the side, onto the deflated pile of corpses.

“Dirty work,” the dragon mumbled, twisting the two fangs in his hand as he inspected them, particularly the glands that bulged from their ends, swollen with poison. “Where is a ditzy mortal when you need one?”

Sablemane leaned against one of the larger trees of the Arbotoreum, the large orchard home to the Order of the Cloud Serpent in the lush Jade Forest. It was just nearing nightfall; the ink-makers across the small pond had retreated into their homes, the cloud serpents and their handlers had just settled away, and Sablemane was alone among the trees. His black cloak hid the glow of his shoulderpads and eyes, and his hood was heavy on his head.

No one saw him. He pocketed the fangs in a worn bag of daggerscale-raptor hide, positioning them so the poison sacs wouldn’t pop among the rest of the wasp-fangs he’d accumulated from the other bugs he’d shot down with his staff earlier.

The venom wasn’t a crust burster’s, but it would have to do. Sablemane glanced over his supplies with a vague sense of boredom and, partially satisfied with what he had, tied the bag closed tight and slipped it into the confines of his cloak.

Two days, nearing three, now that the sun was sinking, had passed since the human prince had snatched Wrathion from Kun-lai. Sablemane lifted from his lean on the tree and repositioned his hood down lower on his face. Nasandria was long gone, by now; once back at the Veiled Stair, the two dragons had found the robotic whelp the nether-drakes had been carrying in the ruins of the Tavern, badly burned but still working. The drake had taken off to the Badlands, as Sablemane had ordered, and the elder dragon had begun planning ideas of his own.

And the venom was the first thing he’d needed. He’d laid low for the first day, cautious of the Blacktalons giving away his position, but the rogues didn’t seem alerted – yet – to their Prince’s dilemma or Sablemane’s presence, and so the elder dragon had thought it best to collect the supplies he needed now before they did become aware.

Idiots.

He stepped passed the pile of wasp corpses and started down to the cobbled road. The sun had set quickly, and the orchard was dark. Gently-lit lanterns guided the way.

As he made his way out of the quiet place, Sablemane went over the ingredients he still needed. He’d made a sleeping potion strong enough to knock out a gronn the quarter of the size of Lion’s Landing before; the elder dragon was more than confident he could make the same, if not a more powerful, potion, to incapacitate the entire keep’s little mortals and snatch his prize back.

It was the only plan that had made sense to him. He’d mulled over simply crashing into the damn fort and grabbing Wrathion like he was some princess in a tower from one of those absurd human storybooks, but that was foolhardy, and Sablemane had dismissed the fleeting idea immediately.

No – subtlety was a game the dragon was well-versed in, and his skills in alchemy would be put to good use at last. He’d found no use for it in an initial attack on the Black Prince, thinking it a waste of time when he could simply crush the whelp underneath his talons…

But the game had changed, and so Sablemane would react accordingly. Good. He liked a nice scheme as much as any black dragon.

He squinted up at the shine of lights coming from the largest town in the Jade Forest higher up the road as he stepped from the last outskirts of the orchard. The dragon needed flasks – particularly ones that could break easily when thrown. The town would surely have some, if it was any good.

Sablemane made his way up, annoyed at having to walk. It was dark enough where he could shift into his dragon form and fly – but then again, the risk of someone looking up and seeing a dark blot against the black sky was too much of a risk.

It was still… inconvenient.

He pulled his hood down lower, cautious, when he finally entered the walls of the village. It was smaller than he had expected, the quaint pandaren houses built on a gentle slope as the land escalated against one of the tall hill-like mountains of the Jade Forest. The thick smells of meaty food and sweet brew, intermingled with the faint smell of cherry blossoms coming from the Arboretum, drifted around the crowd; Sablemane scowled. He hadn’t expected it to be so busy. And it was not just bustling with pandaren - races of the Horde and the Alliance walked by one another, but Sablemane could see under the hood of his cloak the wary, and sometimes outright hostile, looks they were giving their enemies.

He rolled his eyes. Things never changed.

The elder dragon looked around; he had not time to waste in thinking of the stupidity of mortals like the Horde and Alliance.

At least there was some good news – the place was littered with merchants carts. Surely the too-cheery pandaren people had simple flasks.

He snapped his fingers in the face of one pandaren merchant closest to him, whose head was bowed over a stir of noodles. “You. Where are alchemical ingredients?”

The pandaren looked up, startled, the large braid at the back of his head swinging. “Alchemy?”

Sablemane sighed loudly. “Yes. Alchemy.” What, was he deaf?

The pandaren looked around, squinting. Sablemane crossed his arms, his impatience rising.

Just when Sablemane was really about to get cross, the pandaren pointed off to the opposite side of the the large stoned lane. “Should be there, friend,” he said, a touch of wariness in his voice as he glanced sidelong at the dragon.

Sablemane rolled his eyes again and started towards where the pandaren had pointed without a thank-you; the merchant had been so slow in answering, gratitude wasn’t warranted.

There was a line. Of course there had to be a line. The dragon ran a hand over his face. How did mortals deal with such inconvenience? For the second time Sablemane found himself wishing he had his own little errand-runner, as he’d had in Blade’s Edge Mountains, to do such menial tasks for him.

No matter. Soon he would have the flasks, as well as the rest of the ingredients, and after mixing they would be ready for combustion. Sablemane crossed his arms. He’d have to locate Lion’s Landing in Krasarang – which would not be too hard – and calculate the best time to strike. The Alliance ants would never see what hit them.

“ - No, I think he’s an idiot. We helped the assault on General Bloodhilt, and he still thinks we need to do more for him?”

Sablemane glanced over. A night elf stood near the merchant cart next to the alchemical one, her hands full with dark leather. A draenei watched her, and shrugged.

“I am thinking he is just being interested in -”

“I don’t really care. I think the dragon’s just testing us for something.”

Dragon. Sablemane narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t aware of any other dragons on Pandaria but one.

The two women started walking passed him – Sablemane put up his arm to block their way. The elf shot him a vicious glare.

“Pardon me, ladies,” the elder dragon drawled. “Who were you were talking about just then?”

“The Black Prince,” the draenei piped. The elf continued to glare at him.

Ah – some of Wrathion’s “champions” -… pawns, more like. Sablemane almost smiled. His little brother had many, both Horde and Alliance at his disposal, and here were two.

The context of their snippet of conversation he’d heard intrigued him. An assault on a general? What could the little whelp want with the death of a general?

“Who is this ‘General Bloodhilt?’”

“He was the Horde commander in Krasarang.” The elf said. She glared at his arm, which was still blocking the duo’s way, and the dragon dropped it slowly, irritated at the attitude but not wanting to anger away his chance at such curious information.

“A Horde commander.” He repeated. His eyes flickered over to a group of Horde gathered, their backs hunched hungrily, near one of the food stalls.

Surely the little whelp wouldn’t have asked his Horde champions to kill their own leader.

He wondered if his Horde champions knew what he’d asked of his Alliance ones.

The dragon smiled slow. Oh, this was excellent.

Sablemane exited the line to the alchemy merchant. This was much more important. If he could start dismantling Wrathion’s own schemes -

He smiled again, trying his very best to not look so rude. Mortals were affected easily by charm, weren’t they?

“I’m curious – I would love hearing what else the little Black Prince has asked of you.”

—-

Wrathion wasn’t eating.

Anduin sat hunched on the chair he’d pulled up to the bedside, his head in his hands.

The prince was exhausted; the grey circles underneath his eyes had become a chalky black, and his hair was un-brushed and wild. His shoulders drooped low.

He peered through the cracks of his fingers. Wrathion lay shaking in front of him – still shaking on the third, nearing fourth, day.

The dragon looked worse than he had before. Wrathion’s skin was ashen, his eyes sunken into his face, the delicate veins underneath the skin just visible. His face was twisted into a tired grimace; he appeared nearly half-dead.

And he wasn’t eating.

Anduin had tried to force him to eat something just a moment ago -… but the Black Prince had refused to hold it down, only choking it back out and baring his teeth, hardly conscious, when the blond had tried again.

The prince put the back of his hand against Wrathion’s face, then, and felt the cold skin there. The cinderbloom, Warm Sun concoction hadn’t worked. Nothing was, still.

And now that Wrathion wasn’t eating, the prince was well aware that it would not take long for the last vestiges of the dragon’s energy to drain-

And then Wrathion was going to die if Anduin didn’t get help.

He put his face in his hands again and took a deep, calming breath.

Anduin had had enough.

He was done trying to fool himself into thinking he could do this on his own – he’d healed the cuts and gashes, set the broken bones, scrubbed away the blood… but this disease, this infection – whatever it was – was beyond his control and skill.

And he wasn’t going to allow Wrathion to die because of hislack of experience.

Anduin dropped his hands from his face, swept back his ungroomed hair, then looked back at Left. She still stood, unmoving, against the door, as still as a Quilen guardian.

“I can’t do this.”

The prince sounded so defeated, but he didn’t care. He needed for Left to understand. She needed to know. She needed to realize that he needed to ask for help, that someone had to know Wrathion was here, in an Alliance fort, and was probably dying.

The orc glanced at him. Even she looked tired, her blue eyes grim.

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Her gaze flickered over to her shaking Prince, then to Anduin again, slowly, calculatingly.

“I can see,” Left grumbled, finally.

Anduin stood up, grabbing his cane and turning to face her, even though his body protested and quivered once, especially his right leg. Every bit of him was begging him to just lay down, to go to sleep for a very long time, to drop the heavy worry that slugged down at his tired shoulders… but he pushed this selfish weakness aside and straightened up his spine, and looked at Left hard with the stern expression that nearly resembled his father’s. “Good. Then you agree I need to find someone who knows what’s wrong with him.”

His voice was a strict snap. While diplomacy and peace were part of Anduin’s strengths, the prince knew when he was right, and when to argue. And if Left was going to keep being wary about finding outside help -… well, Anduin was going to convince her otherwise. Wrathion’s life was on the line, and he was in no mood to play himself down.

Besides – the tired frustration he’d had the day and a half before, only strengthened by his continued exhaustion, was fueling his attitude. It was a good thing, for once.

“I didn’t say-”

“Left. He’s dying. And I can’t help him. I don’t even know what’s… what’s wrong with him!”

“You’re risking giving His Majesty away if you go running off blabbing your mouth as you ask for help, and ruining all the trust he carefully built with the Horde -”

“What does that matter if he’s dead, Left?” Anduin’s voice rose. He looked back at Wrathion, and his frustration became a bitter sort of worry, before he looked back at the orc.

Left’s grip on the crossbow tightened. Anduin stared hard at her. Despite the open windows bringing in warm, briny air from the briskness outside, the atmosphere in the room grew heavy as the orc and human stared each other down for a long, tense moment.

Finally, Left broke eye contact. Again her gaze slid behind Anduin to the Prince.

She relaxed her grip. “Who did you have in mind to ask, then, prince?” Left said, her voice forced and terse.

Anduin fell back on the chair again, sideways in the seat. His tired body thanked him. The glowering defiance slid from his tense shoulders, and he slouched; he’d managed, at the very least, to convince her to open up to the idea of help.

He tapped the end of his cane idly on the floor. Anduin did not look at her.

“I’m not sure,” the prince said, being honest, the stern tone no longer evident in his words. He’d been mulling over who he might go to as he worked at trying to get Wrathion healthy again, but not many had come to mind. Anduin himself had learned nearly all of the diseases Azeroth had to offer, from the common flu to the plague, during his training, but he obviously knew nothing like what was happening to Wrathion.

And if Anduin didn’t know it – what other Alliance, or even Horde healer would?

He’d come to the conclusion it must have been something unheard of from Pandaria… or something draconic, neither of which Anduin had any knowledge on.

“That doesn’t help persuade me,” Left grumbled. Anduin turned his head back up to look at her. He stopped tapping his cane.

“It has to be someone that knows more than both the Alliance or the Horde. I don’t think anyone here would know what’s wrong with Wrathion.” Left squinted at him. He hesitated for a moment. He did have one vague idea of who to ask, but even then, he wasn’t sure if they would know.

But if they did…

“There’s Chi-ji, the Red Crane,” Anduin said. “I trained at his Temple, farther down along the coast – before the Sha attacked,” he added. Briefly the image of the Celestial’s limp body hanging above the ceiling as the Sha of Despair rose from the floor, its mouth and talons sharp and dripping, came to the prince’s mind; he shook it out with a shake of his head. “He’s the Spirit of -”

“Hope. I know,” Left interrupted. “What would this Celestial know about sickness?”

“If anyone would know, it’s Chi-ji. The Crane Wind Order studies healing and meditation… though I decided not to try their sparring exercises.” He looked away from her again. The orc laughed once, more of a bark than an actual chuckle. Anduin smiled tiredly.

He tapped his cane twice. “I know you’re worried about Wrathion’s… schemes,” Anduin said. “But Chi-ji’s neutral. He won’t care that the Black Prince is in an Alliance fort.” His eyes rose to Left. “And he’s only an hour’s ride away. If anyone knows what’s wrong, it would be Chi-ji.”

At least Anduin hoped.

“I don’t want Wrathion to die, Left. And I don’t think you do either.”

Left stared at him. She hesitated -… but after a slim moment, the orc nodded with a grumble. “Fine. Go.”

Anduin smiled brightly, his eyes still tired, as she moved out of the way of the door and gestured to it with her crossbow. “I’ll stay with His Majesty. Be quick about it. And don’t get kidnapped, or hurt. We don’t have time for that.”

The prince stood. “Don’t worry,” he said, then tapped at his belt, indicating where his throwing knives were. Out of habit, he grabbed his satchel, though it was empty. “I’ll be back soon,” Anduin assured. Left grunted.

Anduin glanced back at Wrathion before he left. The dragon was still comatose, smoke curling from the side of his mouth with each shuddering breath he took. If all went well, Anduin would return with some cure, and the Black Prince would be back on his feet again.

Anduin could not leave fast enough.

—-

Anduin landed his gryphon just outside the Temple of the Red Crane in front of its center statue.

The day was late, and the air was hot, and so humid it seemed to be palpable; the prince’s bangs stuck wet to his forehead, and his neck was slick with droplets. Far above in the ancient canopy, thick enough it blocked the sinking sun, was the buzz of hidden insects and the screams and calls of the Wild’s great birds.

And, nestled in this forgotten wilderness, was the Temple. It loomed ahead of Anduin, an ancient building of grey and crimson stone, elegant in its chiseled, decorative architecture and flanked by two other smaller, round gazebos. Vines as thick as Anduin’s arm crawled along the temple’s pillars, and great patches of living leaves coiled down from the roof, the bannisters, the archways, as if the wild was not quite letting go of the sanctuary just yet.

Anduin smiled. It was just as he remembered. The mysterious beauty of the place, its quiet sense of calm in this rugged, ancient jungle… it was meditative already just being in its presence again, surrounded by nothing by the wilds.

Monks and other disciples looked up as Anduin slid from the gryphon. He smiled at them. They smiled back. Many of them seemed to recognize him, judging by their gentle bows and nods of respect, as he made his way to the steps of the Temple.

One of the pandaren disciples greeted him at the steps with a low bow. Anduin bowed back, equally as low. From farther away, intermingling with the calls of the birds above, were the sounds of sparring from Chi-ji’s other disciples.

“Prince Anduin. Welcome again to the Temple of the Red Crane. We are honored by your presence.”

Anduin smiled, awkward with the praise, but dipped his head in gratitude at the welcome. “Thank you.”

The pandaren smiled back warmly. “We have heard it was you we have to thank for helping save the Temple from the Horde.”

“Oh - not just me. My father, Tyrande, and her rangers were the ones who saved it… I simply warned him not to fight on the Temple’s soil. The sha-infestation did too much damage to this place already. I couldn’t allow it to get worse.”

The disciple laughed and clasped his great paw upon the prince’s shoulder. “Yes, we have much to thank you for, then.” The pandaren dropped his hand. “But enough talk; I see I am embarrassing you! What can we help you with, my friend? You look very tired.”

The prince brushed back his bangs, still stuck to his forehead from the humidity. He took a steadying breath. “I need to speak to Chi-ji,” Anduin said. “My friend is -… is very sick.”

The cheer from the pandaren’s face fell. The disciple grew worried. “I see. Grave news indeed. Come. I will lead you to the Red Crane.” He gestured to one of the monks to the side watching. “Li, care for his animal.”

Anduin handed over the reins as the female pandaren approached. He smiled at her appreciatively, then followed the male pandaren up the stairs.

The large vaulted archway hovered high above him; the columns flanked out spaciously to his sides. His cane tapping against the stone was loud among the peace. He saw, looking around, that the damage done from the Sha of Despair’s invasion had been mostly patched - the fissures, cracks, and ink-black scorch smoke that had bled against the stone had all be evaporated. They passed a handful of monks smoothing out a large crack still in one of the columns, though even then their work was nearly complete. Anduin admired their dutifulness. Soon, the Temple would look as if no invasion, Sha or Horde, had taken place there at all.

The pandaren led him inside the temple itself, then. White and red banners emblazoned with the calligraphic symbol of the Red Crane lined the walls in-between the smaller columns, whose tops curved out into elegant crane heads. Hanging stone lanterns as big as Anduin hung on the far sides of the room, casting a white, gentle glow among the gray- and red-stone.

It was so overwhelmingly peaceful Anduin, for a fleeting, instinctive moment, had the idea to simply kneel and meditate or pray right in the center of the room, as he had done before when he had trained here under Chi-ji, for however brief a time it had been.

He shook his head and followed the pandaren still. Maybe another time – when someone’s life wasn’t ebbing away with every minute Anduin was gone.

They went down the stairs, deep under the temple now, then another. More of the stone lanterns with their white fire lit the way.

The pandaren stopped at the top of the last flight of steps, going down deeper still into the temple, and turned to the prince.

“Chi-ji awaits, my friend. May you find the counsel you seek.” The disciple bowed.

Anduin bowed to him again. “Thank you.”

The prince turned, and made his way down. He took another meditative breath, as he had outside, as he descended. Why did his chest constrict?

But he knew why. He was not nervous to meet Chi-ji again – indeed he was very delighted to be visiting the Red Crane again, though wished it was under different circumstances – but nervous that Chi-ji would not know how to aid him.

Anduin blinked once, hard. No. Chi-ji must know something.

And if not, the prince would find someone who did. He would not be giving up on the Black Prince so easily.

He looked up. Ahead, at the bottom of the stairs, was a large, circular room, encircled by crane statues and teal-tinted columns.

In the center stood Chi-ji.

The great Crane shone with a fiery, ebbing glow; wisps of red and yellow and white twirled about his very form and twisted into the air, as graceful as a dancer’s ribbons. The white of his feathers was as shiny as a pearl’s, and his crest, the tips of his wings, and fanned tail was as red as a flame. Crimson, circular designs fleetingly appeared along his delicate wings and neck, only to disappear in a hearbeat’s rhythm. His very aura radiated a sense of calm.

Anduin made it to the bottom of the stairs. Chi-ji regarded him kindly.

The Red Crane bowed his crested head, then. “Greetings, young prince. We meet again at last.” His voice echoed pleasantly in on itself. “You honor me with your visit.”

Anduin bent his head down low. The calm Chi-ji radiated effected the prince instantly; like the Light itself, it billowed around him, warm and comforting, brushing away the heaviness from his shoulders and eyes, his frustration and worry.

“Thank you for seeing me, Chi-ji,” Anduin said, straightening up again.

“There is no reason for thanks, young prince,” the Red Crane said, his words warm. “You are always welcome in my Temple, and in my presence – your light is a beacon to us all, and it is you who has saved this sacred place not once, but twice.” Chi-ji smiled. “I was very pleased with your Father’s nature during the Horde takeover of the Temple.”

Anduin smiled. “I’m glad. He’s been doing much better with his temper.” Varian had spoken to Anduin about his brief talk with Chi-ji, but not in much detail.

“But I see you have not come to me to speak of your father, young prince. You are worried.” The Red Crane tilted his head. “There is doubt and despair in your heart. What troubles you, to have put such a burden upon yourself?”

Chi-ji was that quick to know? Anduin’s eyes flickered downward. Did he – really seem that troubled?

Anduin rose his eyes again. Chi-ji watched him, patient. His red glow flickered against Anduin’s pale face.

“The Black Prince Wrathion – the dragon from the Veiled Stair - was attacked,” Anduin started, his voice slow, but with a waver to his words. “He was hurt badly. I did everything I could, but he’s – there’s something wrong with him that I can’t heal.” He lowered his eyes again. The calm ebbed around him, comforting him, but even then he felt as if his words were shielding him, creating a barrier of worry, pushing the peace away like oil against water. “He’s so cold he shakes constantly. He’s hardly conscious. He won’t eat. I thought it was an infection, but -” he lifted his eyes to the crane again. “But I treated treated all of his wounds. I think he’s going to die if I don’t get him help.” For a mere moment, his voice broke – but Anduin was quick to compose himself. He swallowed hard, and tried to focus on the calm aura.

The Red Crane was silent for a moment. Anduin watched him. Surely Chi-ji must have… some idea… some vain hope for Wrathion’s health…

“I know of the Black Prince. He, too, honored my Temple with a visit of his own. I am troubled myself by news of his misfortune.”

Anduin furrowed his brows. He hadn’t known that.

“I do not know what ails the son of the Earthwarder,” Chi-ji said after another moment of silence.

Anduin’s heart sank.

That was it – there went the only idea Anduin had. He swallowed hard.

He began to bow his head again – he felt almost numb - but Chi-ji spoke once more.

“But I may know someone who does.”

Anduin looked back up sharply. His shield of worry began to give way to the aura of peace again.

“You do?”

Chi-ji nodded. “One of his own kind, not long ago, came to me seeking my guidance. I may not know what troubles the young Prince, but perhaps one of his own does.”

Anduin stared at him.

“One of his own kind?” He repeated. His mind drifted to Sabellian. “A dragon, you mean?”

“Yes. She is not of the Black, but she is very kind. I am sure she would offer aid when asked.”

Anduin considered, quiet. It wasn’t a black dragon - … which was good, he supposed. It was a red, a green, a bronze or blue. The prince frowned.

Anduin knew that Wrathion hated the Reds, and that the Reds hated him. He didn’t quite know what the Black Prince’s opinions were of the green, bronze, or blue Flights, nor what those Flights thought of him. Surely not all dragons had the same opinions as one another…

But if this dragon was a Red, or another Flight that cared ill for the Black Prince, would they even help? Would asking them for help only make it worse, as Anduin gave away Wrathion’s position to yet another enemy?

… Yet Anduin had little choice; he couldn’t allow the risk of the dragon Chi-ji spoke of being an enemy outweigh the enormous benefit of the dragon saving Wrathion. After all, Chi-ji had said that this dragon, whoever she was, was kind and gracious. Surely he would not recommend someone who would endanger the Black Prince.

“Do you know where she is, now?” Anduin asked.

“She left for the Jade Forest to seek Yu’lon’s wisdom,” Chi-ji answered. “I would search there, first, young prince.”

Anduin smiled wide. The heaviness shimmering around him vanished once again. “Thank you,” he said, the gratitude thick in his voice.

Chi-ji bowed his head. “I sense your great care and loyalty for the child of the Worldbreaker… but do not despair in his pain. There is always hope.”

Anduin nodded, then bowed low; he understood. “Thank you, again, Chi-ji. I’ll search for the dragon you spoke of.”

“Young prince.” Anduin had begun to turn to leave – he swiveled back around, leaning on his cane. The Red Crane’s voice was almost… hesitant.

“I find myself wishing to share what I saw in the heart of the Black Prince during his visit,” the celestial began. He paused thought fully, then continued. “I have never seen an individual so unsure of Hope, and so full of doubt and despair. My blessing was needed upon his shoulders.”

Anduin frowned. Wrathion? Doubting himself? Despairing? The overconfident, grinning face of the dragon across their pandaren chess game appeared in the prince’s mind eye; his grand talks of a united world; the coy side-glances.

Anduin had never thought that Wrathion, of all people, was one full of doubt in himself, or to despair.

“He was?” Anduin murmured, disbelieving, mostly to himself. He lowered his eyes, skimmed the crane-etched floor, and deepened his frown.

“I am glad you are by his side, then, young prince – you, whose hope is greatest.” Anduin looked back up. Chi-ji regarded him silently for a moment.

“Be mindful to remind the Black Prince of the nature of Hope, Anduin Wrynn. Show him it is actions that make the soul, and not the actions of its lineage that decides its fate.”

“I will.” Anduin paused. “… Why are you telling me this?”

“At our weakest, we may give in to our worst doubts and fears,” Chi-ji said. “Even I did, when the Sha of Despair attacked this Temple – and you were the one to help cleanse me.” The Crane looked at Anduin pointedly. “I wish not for the same to happen to the young prince.”

Anduin’s frown deepened. Was he… referencing the -?…

The prince nodded. Maybe Chi-ji was simply being cautious, and giving advice. “I’ll be sure to remind him, Master Crane,” Anduin said. This was all very … disconcerting. Chi-ji nodded.

“Thank you again for your advice. I need to hurry back,” Anduin said. “Wrathion’s only going to get worse while I’m away.” He bowed, then straightened.

“Peace be with you, Anduin Wrynn,” Chi-ji said behind him, as the prince left the Temple and took his gryphon at a hard flight back to the fort.

—-

“That’s impossible.”

Sablemane sloshed around the remainder of his drink, idly watching the brew swirl in the wooden cup. Sitting across from him, their eyes watching the dragon with vague disbelief or interest, was a group of Horde heroes. It was the tauren, who was scrunched in between, awkward in his size, who had spoken. His ears were flat against his skull.

“I’m afraid it’s very true,” Sablemane said, lifting his eyes to focus back on the Sunwalker. Sitting beside the tauren was a troll druid who wore her hair in long braids against a headband and a blood elf mage with bright red hair, who leaned his head against his propped up hand. Sablemane had begun talking simply talking to the troll, first, but once the nature of his conversation was overheard, others had slunk in and gathered to hear.

Mortals so did love gossip.

The tauren sunwalker shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Wrathion was very supportive of the Horde when I spoke to him,” he mumbled. The other champions nodded their agreement, or else just continued to stare at the dragon with wary eyes.

Sablemane had to force back the twitch of a grin that threatened to rise up his face. Oh, this was too good. How had his little brother not seen the dangers of the game he was playing?

Or perhaps he had – perhaps he’d been cautious. Certainly the Horde heroes in front of him in this small pandaren inn in the Jade Forest didn’t believe Sablemane at first when he’d told them it was Wrathion’s idea to kill their general in Krasarang.

They had no idea Wrathion was fooling them all! The trusted him so blindly!

But they would not be trusting him very soon, Sablemane thought. Oh, no, Wrathion’s careful building-up of trust in his heroes – saying he supported one faction then turning his back to wish for the best for another – was soon to be broken by mere words from Sablemane’s mouth.

And then where would the little Black Prince be, without his strong champions, who would soon, no doubt, begin to lose their already-tenuous trust in him?

Never doubt the ties of loyalty to one’s faction, especially a faction such as the Horde and the Alliance – break that, and one would know anger.

And once Sablemane’s work of manipulation here was done, he would continue with his first course of action: the sleeping potions. He had found flasks after finishing his conversation with the night elf and draenei, as well as the rest of his ingredients, and even as he spoke the mixtures brewed and boiled and simmered, their properties transforming into a powerful elixir stronger than any other sleeping draught he’d ever made.

And once Lion’s Landing was asleep, Sablemane could simply walk in and grab the whelp… and maybe throw the little blond prince through a wall for good measure. His shoulder still hurt from the crossbow.

“Ya’ could be lyin’,” the troll pointed out, eyeing him. The blood elf raised his thin brows in agreement with the druid. Sablemane readjusted his hood, which cloaked the front half of his face.

“Mm. I am a human; I could be lying to you Horde, couldn’t I? You have me there.” He leaned forward a bit in his seat. “But I am… unaffiliated.” He sounded bored. “I’m merely interested in spreading the truth to such…” He struggled for the right words. Charm, he reminded himself. Mortals liked to be charmed. “Brave heroes like yourselves.”

The tauren put up a heavy hand. “So you are saying the Black Prince lies about his support of the Horde?”

Sablemane rolled his eyes. “Let’s think, tauren: do you think he would have asked General Bloodhilt to be killed if he did?” He scoffed. What about it didn’t these Horde understand? “He is playing both factions. He asked you to kill that dwarf Twinbraids while he asked the Alliance to kill the orc… to gain trust from you in him. Understand?”

He stuck his thumb over his shoulder, indicating a worgen hunter with a large turtle by his side talking to a human woman with black hair, whose paladin armor was blue and gold, at another table. “Ask them. See if I’m lying. See how trustworthy your Black Prince is, now.” He finished his drink and sat back in his seat again.

Almost as an afterthought, he added: “And, oh – do remember to ask yourselves that if he’s lied to you about something like this, if he’s lied about anything else, hm?”

Sablemane smiled, then. At his words the Horde looked annoyed, uncomfortable, or angry.

Here soon they would be talking to other friends, other acquaintances, complaining or gossiping about the Black Prince’s lies.

And by word of mouth Wrathion’s support would crumble.

This was too easy.

—-

“You want us to track down a dragon.”

Amber Kearnen, professional sniper of the SI:7, stared Anduin down. Her right eye was covered with a bright green scope, but even still Anduin could see the disbelief in her look.

He nodded. “Yes. She should be in the Jade Forest.” The prince’s tone was even, but quiet. He had just come back from the Temple of the Red Crane, and after putting away his gryphon, had sought out the SI:7 team that had once sought out him.

“Why do you need to find a dragon?” Amber asked. She crossed her arms. Behind her Sully sat at a workbench, a large rocket launcher splayed out in front of him, its pieces bent and fried from some sort of malfunction. His thick but deft fingers played about with its gears.

Anduin had anticipated the question. He’d tried to find a good way to answer it on the way back from the Temple of the Red Crane, but no convincing lie had come to him.

So he decided to be honest – or at least, as honest as he could without breaking the first promise he’d made to Left in not letting anyone know Wrathion was here, in Lion’s Landing.

Besides – the SI:7 team deserved that much from him, he concluded. They’d dragged their knees through a wild, new continent looking for him, and he’d tricked them with a wave of shadow magic and disappeared into the mists once again to search for the Vale.

Amber was squinting at him, still. Anduin chanced a quick look around. They were outside on the rise near the fort, underneath a heavy cloth tent. It was quickly becoming dusk, but the skirmishes that had been at the mines today have moved closed and closer to Lion’s Landing; the air was loud with the sound of battle, and many soldiers or heroes had returned as of yet, save for a couple who were seeking medical aid. From the corner of his eye Anduin noted Mishka tending to a gnome warlock -… but around the tent, it was only the prince, Amber, and Sully, with no one to overhear.

He dropped his eyes, went over his words carefully, then lifted his head to stare at Amber right in the face, his expression earnest, but serious. “Someone’s sick with an illness I can’t cure. I think they’re… going to die if they don’t get help.” His eyes flickered to Sully before they rested on Amber again. “The dragon in the Jade Forest might know how to heal them.”

“Who’s sick?” Amber asked without hesitating, with a slight tone of suspicion.

Anduin bit the inside of his cheek.

“I can’t tell you.”

He almost winced. He sounded like a child who’d pinky-swore – especially with the admonished look Amber gave him.

“Listen, Prince Anduin, I -”

Sully looked up from his gun. “S’ the sickness contagious, lad?”

Anduin looked at him. He shrugged. “I’m not sure. It could be.” The prince paused, then; a convincing idea may have just presented itself. Anduin continued, more confidently, more convincingly.“But if it is, Lion’s Landing would be comatose within only a couple of days, starting with me… and I’m not sure if my father would be very happy about that,” he added, for effect.

“I’m not keen to bein’ sick,” the dwarf said warily. He let go of the gears, where they rattled against the small workbench. “Comatose, eh?” Anduin nodded.

Sully glanced back at Amber. “The lad seems honest ta’ me, Amber. Lookit ‘im! Looks ready to drop, himself.” He pointed at Anduin and gestured to the prince’s face. Anduin leaned back a bit, his cane sinking into the sand. “All those baggy wrinkles under ‘is eyes. Eugh.”

“Sully, he just looks tired.”

“Precisely! Ye did say ‘comatose,’ didn’t ye, lad? All tired an’ such?”

“… Yes.” The prince glanced between the two agents. He was honestly surprised Sully wasn’t outright hostile to him; it had been the dwarf who Anduin had mind controlled in order to get away.

But here Sully was, backing him up. Anduin was glad for it, but at the same time… confused.

Amber looked at Sully, then at Anduin. Anduin looked back at her and said nothing. She was inspecting him, her visible eye raking slowly across every inch of his face, taking in the deep circles Sully had pointed out, as well as his sagging shoulders, and his general unkempt appearance.

“Mhm. So. It could be contagious, huh?” Amber said. She still sounded unsure. Anduin nodded. The SI:7 agent tapped her fingers against her crossed forearms as she looked away from the prince and down below the rise, where the other tents were. Anduin followed her look. Marshal Troteman was leaned over a map in the gear supplier’s tent; his back was to them. It was the Marshal that Amber was eyeing.

“Listen, kid, I don’t really believe you.” Anduin went to open his mouth but Amber was quick to keep speaking. “But, I’m tired of Troteman making us hang out along this beach. The SI:7 aren’t soldiers, we’re scouts and spies. Except Sully. I’m not really sure what Sully is.”

“’Ey!”

Amber ignored the dwarf, then uncrossed her arms and looked at Anduin again. “You seem worried for -… whoever it is,” Amber said. “That I genuinely believe.”

Anduin smiled tentatively at her.

“I guess Troteman won’t miss us for a couple days.” She shifted the silver sniper rifle into a different position slung across her back. “And if the Prince himself wants us to find a dragon? Then fine. As long as it gets me off of this damn beach,” she hadded with a mumble.

“Thas’ the spirit, Amber!”

The SI:7 agent rolled her eyes at Sully. Anduin’s tentative smile had become full-fledged. They were going to go look!

“Alright, Prince Anduin. So we’ll go - on your royal mission. You are the Prince. But we need more information that just ‘a dragon in the Jade Forest.’”

Anduin paused. Oh – he was regretting not asking Chi-ji more about the dragon who’d spoken to him… but the talk about Wrathion with the Red Crane had flustered him. The prince shifted his weight once and cleared his throat.

“She might be at the Temple of the Jade Serpent. She was visiting Yu’lon.”

“Okay. What else?”

“Uhm…”

Amber ran a hand over her face.

“You did find me without much leads,” Anduin countered before the agent could say something. Amber scoffed.

“Then you ran away and got yourself captured by the Horde,” the sniper responded, gruff. Anduin had no argument for that.

Amber sighed loud through her nose. “No hard feelings, kid. But I guess you’re right. We did find you.” With a grumble, she added: “How hard could it be to find a huge lizard, anyway?”

“Thank you,” Anduin said, smiling wide again. “You don’t know how much this means.” He’d be worried they would turn him down – after all, Anduin had made their lives much more complicated during the first month on Pandaria – but here Amber was, accepting. Anduin tried not to think about how it seemed it was just because she wanted to get away from Krasarang.

“Well, we might end up saving Lion’s Landing from a terrible disease, huh?” Amber said with a sly smile, belying her sarcasm. “It’s only our duty to find something to help protect our Alliance, Prince.”

“I do love a good dragon hunt!” Sully piped. Anduin glanced over at him as the dwarf hopped off of the work bench. The prince blinked, surprised; the gun that had moments before been in disrepair was now finished in Sully’s hand. Had the dwarf fixed it that fast? “Granted I’ve never been on one meself, but I’m sure I’d like one, eh?”

“Oh – don’t hurt her,” Anduin said quickly, worried at the change of conversation. Sully laughed and hoisted the gun across his back.

“No worries, Prince Anduin. A play on words, s’ all. I won’t split even a wee scale. Ya’ have me promise.”

“Unless she fights back,” Amber noted. She was checking the ammunition in her rifle and, looking satisfied, she shut the barrel closed with a clack. “Let’s go, Sully, before Troteman comes sniffing for us. I’ll tell Mishka; you get supplies from the barracks.” She looked back at Anduin. “We’ll find your dragon. And Sully’s right – sick or not, you do look tired. Get some sleep.”

Before the prince had time to thank her again, she turned and jumped from the rise. Startled, he looked over, but the SI:7 agent had landed on her feet and was already starting off to where Anduin had seen Mishka only moments before.

“Good thing ya’ gave her somethin’ ta do. Poor Amber was ‘bought ready to tear every hair from her head if she kept still fer’ another moment.” Sully was putting some of the leftover gears from the workbench into his leather belt. “Same as me!” He laughed. “Stayin’ on a beach is no place fer’ the SI:7. An’ don’t let her fool ye’, I’m an agent – in me own way.” The dwarf winked. Anduin smiled at him.

The prince paused. He bit his lip, opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Finally, he forced himself to say the words that had failed him. “Sully – what happened in the Jade Forest – I’m sorry. What I did was wrong. I should have -”

“Oh, don’t worry yerself over that,” Sully interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It was kinda’ funny, lookin’ back on it.”

Anduin stared at him. His mouth was somewhat agape.

“But I – I controlled your mind! I forced -”

“An’ ye helped open the Vale rather than havin’ yer hide dragged back to Stormwind. I think of it as a win!”

Anduin shifted again, awkwardly. He was at a loss for words. This had went a lot differently than he’d thought it would.

“Well – uhm -”

Sully pat the prince’s arm. “Really, lad. S’ all right. Ye’ can let it go.” He smiled brightly.

Anduin smiled back, a bit more nervously than the dwarf, and nodded.

“Now! Amber will skin my hide if I don’t get those supplies. Wish us luck, lad!”

The dwarf started off at a gait that seemed too quick for his smaller legs. Anduin watched him go. The last remaining tension began to vanish from his aching body, and he allowed himself a full, but tired, smile.

Things were looking better. Chi-ji had pointed him in the direction of a cure, and the SI:7 was on their way to finding it.

Anduin closed his eyes, took a deep breath of the fresh air, and focused for a brief moment, centering himself, before turning on his good heel and making his way back int othe fort. The sun was setting, now. He may have found some help for Wrathion, but that didn’t mean the dragon still didn’t need care at the present time. The prince rolled his shoulders back. After checking up on Wrathion, maybe he’d take a quick nap; he hardly had enough energy to cast a healing spell right now. Then he would settle in for a long bought of Light healing, afterwards.

At least the situation was turning much more hopeful, he thought.

—-

Anduin turned to his bedroom door after the long walk down the hallway.

“Left, I’m back! I have some good news.”

She didn’t answer. Anduin frowned. That was odd. She should have at least opened the door.

He reached out and tried to the knob – to his surprise, it turned with a squeak.

Maybe she’d just left it open, knowing he’d be back.

He opened the door -

And froze.

Left was slammed back into wall to the side; impact marks cracked up along the stone. She sat hunched in on herself, her head hanging, her long ponytail draped limply across her shoulders, and from his angle Anduin spotted a dark green bruise along the side of her shaved head.

And right in front of Anduin, his back to the blond prince as he looked out of the window, was Wrathion.

“Wrathion?” Anduin started, confused. He glanced at the bodyguard, then at the Black Prince again. The dragon did not seem to hear him, not at first; he didn’t even move. His cast right arm hung loose at his side, while his left elbow leaned into the window sill. The open breeze ruffled his dark, wavy hair.

How was – how was he suddenly standing? Wrathion hadn’t eaten, had no energy – he could hardly move or speak when Anduin had left!

“Wrathion,” Anduin repeated, his heart slowly beginning to quicken. This had quickly become worrisome, and unnerving, reinforced by the fact that Left still hadn’t moved. Something was very, very wrong. For a brief moment Anduin wondered if Sabellian was here, hiding – but a quick look around said otherwise. The prince took a steadying breath and cast his eyes again on the Black Prince.

“… Are you alright?” Anduin asked, as he inched his way into the room and closed the door behind him with his heel.

The click of the door made Wrathion finally move - his shoulders tensed.

The dragon turned his head, and Anduin felt his heart rise above his skin.

Wrathion’s eyes weren’t red – they were white, aglow and giving off a sheen of icy, ethereal blue.

Anduin’s grasp on his cane tightened. Those were Sha eyes.

“Anduin Wrynn,” Wrathion drawled, and he stood straight from his hunch across the window sill to face the blond prince. Anduin found himself backing up once. “I was just talking about you.” His voice was a near-sigh, like he was too tired to speak, or too sad.

“To who?” Anduin asked, as an afterthought.

His mind was racing. How had – how had Wrathion come under the influence of the Sha? The prince looked the dragon over quickly. The Sha did affect quickly, but in the span of the two hours Anduin had been gone? It was -

Chi’ji’s voice came back to him.

At our weakest, we may give in to our worst doubts and fears.

He stared at Wrathion. His ashen skin, the smoke curling from his mouth – Anduin had assumed it’d just been from the sickness, that the smoke wasn’t Sha smoke, but his usual draconic one.

Just make it stop; Wrathion’s desperate look.

Had Wrathion been talking about his illness, his injuries - … or this? Had he realized what was feeding off of his misery, his despair, but been unable to stay awake, to say anything, or had been strong enough to brush it aside?

Anduin’s head was spinning. He’d made a very terrible mistake. He’d only seen the disease – not what had been simmering underneath it!

Wrathion didn’t answer his question. His white eyes were trained on Anduin, his gaze lidded. The dragon’s shoulders began to droop.

“What? Have you come back with more of those little potions to shove down my throat?” Wrathion asked. He lifted off fully from the wall, swayed once, and continued to stare. His arms still hung loose at his sides. “I guess those won’t work either, hm?” He added. “I’m just going to die.”

“You’re not going to die,” Anduin said, interrupting quickly. He walked a bit closer; Wrathion tilted his head, reminding Anduin of a raptor he’d seen by the side of a hunter champion before. “Someone’s going to come help -”

“I nearly died,” Wrathion said. He seemed to not have heard Anduin. “Sabellian could have easily killed me.” His hands flexed. Anduin glanced down at them – and his mouth went dry. Wrathion had lost his gauntlets in the cave, and so his hands were not gloved… and so Anduin could easily see the tips of the dragon’s fingers curling into white and black claws, sharp and demonic. “I was that weak. And now some sickness is killing me.” Smoke – not draconic, Anduin realized that now, but smoke encircled with the grey-blue of the Sha – drooled from the side of the dragon’s mouth.

“But he didn’t,” Anduin said. The sha that had overtaken Wrathion was easy to spot; it was not Anger, or Hate, or Fear. It was Despair.

I have never seen an individual so unsure of Hope, and so full of doubt and despair.

“Wrathion, you’re not weak,” Anduin continued. He walked a step closer. “You’re very strong. You were just caught off guard.” His voice was soothing, as if he was speaking to a cornered animal. If he could muster enough energy to charge up a cleansing spell like the ones he’d performed during the invasion at the Temple of the Red Crane, if he had the right aim -

“Caught off guard,” Wrathion repeated, murmuring to himself, with a bitterness. “Caught off guard. How absurd. How idiotic. Caught off guard.” His eyes began to unfocus, and the unnatural glow of the white strengthened. Anduin saw, from the corner of his eyes, the claws begin to lengthen at Wrathion’s hands.

This wasn’t going well.

“I have a brother. Did you know that, Anduin? A long lost brother. I did not even think to look in Outland. And now he almost killed me - and made me sick - and I’m dying. From a sickness. A sickness! Ridiculous! Where’s the heroism in that?” He swayed again. He sounded strangely hysterical but exhausted and depressed all at the same time. “I’m the Black Prince. I’m not supposed to get caught off guard. But I did. I didn’t see him coming, did I? I’m not a very good Prince, Anduin Wrynn.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Anduin interrupted, before Wrathion could start rambling again. “But you’ll be cured -”

“No. NO. I do not make mistakes! I am not supposed to make mistakes!” His left hand lifted and dug into his hair, his claws raking against his scalp and quickly drawing blood, where it dripped down across his white shirt. Anduin swallowed. His heart was hammering. Wrathion was going to hurt himself more if the prince didn’t drudge up enough energy soon.

He tried to focus on the Light, and it came to him quickly – but summoning the Light and controlling it were two very different things. It took energy and concentration to manipulate the Light into what the user wanted – in Anduin’s case, a purging spell – but the prince had neither energy nor concentration from his lack of sleep.

“But I did make a mistake. And my home -” Wrathion groaned. “-My Tavern is gone. And Right is dead. And I was beaten down like a – like a dog! And you! You nearly died. And I am dying. How am I to fight the Legion if I make mistakes?!” Wrathion snarled. His hands had become fully warped by the Sha now, his fingers full talons, and when he bore his teeth the prince noted his lengthened canines, dagger-sharp.

A small shine appeared in Anduin’s right hand. He hid it behind his back, just in case Wrathion grew volatile at seeing it. It was not a complete purging spell yet, but with enough focus…

“But you’re okay now, Wrathion. And so am I. I’m not dead, and I won’t let you die, either.” He chanced a smile.

Wrathion’s eyes focused with a snap back on Anduin. “But you will only die anyway, won’t you? Mortals live such little lives. And Left will die, too. And all my agents. And all of my heroes and champions. And then I’ll be alone again.” The snarl was gone. Wrathion sounded so sad, using a tone the prince had never heard him speak in, that Anduin had to force himself not to move towards him to try to comfort him in a closer range.

Anduin wasn’t sure how to respond to the comment, however, immediately. More smoke was drifting from Wrathion’s mouth.

“You’re right. I will die. But with how many people you have around you now, Wrathion, I don’t doubt you’ll ever be alone. Especially when you save Azeroth from the Legion,” he added, in an attempt to goad the dragon’s usual self confidence back into place.

“They won’t trust me if Sabellian’s alive,” Wrathion murmured. “They won’t follow me.”

Anduin frowned. “What?”

“Do you know how hard I have tried to make myself look trustworthy? How hard I have tried to show I am not like my father, like the rest of my Flight?” Wrathion hissed. “And now some – some dragon is going to ruin all of that by just being alive!”

Anduin deepened his frown. This wasn’t making sense. “Wrathion, just because you have a brother doesn’t mean no one will believe in you-”

“When they look at me, they see Deathwing the Destroyer first. My family. My blood,” Wrathion spat. The veins underneath his ashen skin seemed to be glowing bright with the white-blue sheen now, and dark shadows began to ink out and around Wrathion’s eyes, making the initial glow from his eyes more severe against the dark. “If they’re reminded of what my family was with Sabellian, with their corruption, they’ll remember. They’ll remember where I came from. Then that is all they will see again until that dragon is dead. Until they are all dead.”

Anduin nodded slowly; he understood.

At the same time, the spell behind Anduin’s back had managed to strength at least three times stronger, but it was still not good enough to purge Sha, especially a corruption as deep as Wrathion’s was quickly turning out to be.

Wrathion went quiet. He stared at Anduin.

Anduin didn’t like the look in his vacant eyes.

Before the prince had time to shield himself the dragon lurched forward with a speed even unnatural for him and grabbed the prince by the sash. He turned, and with an explosion of glass and blood Wrathion slammed Anduin back into the window where it shattered. Anduin bared his teeth and forced the cry of pain that threatened to escape from his throat down. His hands found Wrathion’s, which still gripped onto the blond’s sash, his claws digging against his tabard and poking through holes.

“I should just kill you,” Wrathion said. Again the fury had left his voice, replaced only by despair. “You will die, dear prince. I may as well just get it over with.” His hand let go of the sash, only to snatch back onto Anduin’s throat – his right hand, his bad arm, the arm that was not fully mended and should have been cracking again under the pressure of holding the blond prince up, unless it had already.

Wrathion’s grip was tight and already Anduin was seeing spots against his vision and felt his flesh begin to bruise. He gagged.

“Wrathion – you don’t – have to kill me -”

The dragon laughed without humor, a sad sort of choking sound. “I see why Sargeras went mad. There’s no use to it.” His grip tightened. The claws dug into the side of Anduin’s throat; beads of warm blood began to run down the sides of his skin. “No use to setting things right. To Order. To life. There’s no… purpose, is there? One mistake and everything is gone.” He pushed his arm out, and Anduin felt the yawning abyss behind him as half of his body went through the window with Wrathion’s hand.

Anduin wanted to say that Wrathion couldn’t let the despair overtake him – that that was just how life was, no matter how many schemes he made, or how much he calculated. That purpose was when you found people you cared about, when you found something you loved, when you had friends to protect and who protected you. Wrathion loved Azeroth, and he had friends who cared about him, like the one who was about to be thrown out of a window.

But Wrathion’s grip was too strong, and the words wouldn’t come. The spots in Anduin’s eyes were now bursting white stars, threatening to overtake him, and the Light glow in his hands was snuffed out.

So Anduin, desperate, did all he could think of to do – he kicked out.

His left foot hit square into Wrathion’s chest, and there was a snap as the already-broken bones there caved in again. The dragon snarled and, out of instinct, jerked his arm back inside.

But his grip didn’t loosen. Anduin kicked out again when his mind began to sink underneath a seeping darkness, his lungs burning, out of air, but Wrathion dodged -

And slammed Anduin hard into the wall next to the shattered window, so hard that it cracked, and Anduin thought no more.

—-

“Anduin.”

The voice came from far away. It was a muffle, an echo, shooting vaguely across his mind.

He groaned.

Someone shook his shoulder.

“Anduin! Wake!”

The voice was sharper now. The muggy darkness Anduin’s head had been swimming in began to part; his thoughts began to make sense. The prince groaned low again as a sudden but continual beat of pain thrummed across his throat, head, and shoulders.

Confused, he opened his eyes. Left crouched in front of him, her hands against his shoulders. She was bleeding across her left cheek, and the bruise Anduin had spotted alongside her shaved head had worsened to a dark brownish green.

“Left?” He grumbled, his voice a slush in his mouth. He didn’t really remember quite what had happened for a moment -

Until he shot up from his slouch against the cracked wall amongst the broken glass, his eyes wide. He looked around quickly, ignoring the thrum of pain in his head.

Wrathion wasn’t in the room.

“He’s gone,” Anduin mumbled, disbelieving.

No. This couldn’t be happening.

Anduin’s chest constricted. His eyes shot back over to Left, who had taken her arms off of him.

“Where is he?” Anduin demanded. His voice was loud and harsh, but a waver of panic flickered beneath his words. Wrathion’s white eyes, his clawed, skewered hands, his desperate then monstrous look – the images began to flicker against his mind’s eye, too fast and too wild, for Anduin to even attempt to calm himself down.

“Gone,” Left said. She rose. Anduin scrambled to his feet, stumbled as his right leg shook, but caught his balance against the windowsill behind him. A prick of pain bloomed in his palm, and he shot his hand back; a small shard of glass had stuck in the skin. He leaned back against the window and plucked it out, without thought, mechanically, all while staring at Left.

“Obviously he’s gone!” He shouted at her. He didn’t care he was shouting. He didn’t even notice he didn’t care. The prince ran a hand through his hair and felt stickiness at the back; he pulled his hand away and on his gold glove was a smear of blood – from when Wrathion had crushed him back against the glass.

He ignored it, dropping his hand. Left was going through her belt. Her movements were deft.

“Where is he?” He asked again, more desperate this time.

“I don’t know. He’s gone. Like I just said!”

Why wasn’t she out looking for him? Why were they still in here? Why had she woken Anduin up first? Shouldn’t she have gone after Wrathion? What if he was getting worse? What if the Sha that gripped him was goading him onward, down to deeper despair and doubt?

“Shouldn’t – you should have looked for him instead of waking me up!”

Left turned to him, dropped her hands from her belt, and grabbed him by the sash. She jerked him close.

“I need you to stop screaming at me,” the orc hissed. “I only just woke up too. I know what I’m doing. Now shut up and calm down. Compose yourself. Meditate. Do whatever you do to keep that stupid grin that’s always on your face on. You panicking is not going to make this any better.”

She let go.

Anduin sagged back. He swallowed hard. Left went through the pockets in her belt again. He watched without seeing.

The prince’s head was blurring. Anduin held it in his unbloodied hand for a moment, scrunching his eyes closed. The glow of Wrathion’s Sha-infested eyes seemed burned against Anduin’s eyelids.

Wrathion was gone. He was possessed by the Sha, deep in despair, wholly full of doubt, and still sick with whatever illness.

And he was gone.

He looked back up, his clean hand shaking as it dropped from his face. Left was right. He had to calm down. He wasn’t making this any better.

But he was so tired, and so worried, and – and everything had been about to go so well, and then – then this had happened -

Left grabbed something from her belt. It flashed – it was a red gem, similar to what the other Agents wore across their foreheads.

“I need to you tell me what happened. Right now.”

Anduin stared at her. His head froze, when just a moment ago it’d be aflame with thoughts and images, as if it’d simply shut off because of the onslaught.

“’Right now’ means right now, prince!”

He jumped. His mind began to turn again. Anduin opened his mouth, though the words did not come immediately.

“He – I walked in and you were unconscious. He was standing by the window. I tried to help him, but -” Wrathion grabbing him with the long, curled, glowing claws flashed against his eyes - “he was too far gone. The Sha had completely taken him… and I didn’t have the energy to purge it from him.” His failure hit him hard as he spoke the events aloud; Anduin didn’t try to hide the tired defeat and pain from his voice, his panicked anger beginning to sludge away. Let Left think what Left thought – he didn’t care. “I thought he was going to kill me,” he added, mostly to himself, with a mumble.

Left grunted, turned away and rubbed the gem between her fingers. “Shouldn’t you have picked up on His Majesty being slowly possessed?”

“I know. I didn’t see it because of his illness. I just thought it must have been part of the disease, but -” he shrugged helplessly, and swept a hand over his face.

Left sighed. “Very well. There’s no time for me to be angry at you for it. I needed to know what the situation was before we looked.” She lifted her free hand and swept back her large ponytail, her gloved fingers trailing over the bruise. “I’m not sure what made him snap. One moment he was sleeping, and the next he’d shot up and pummeled me into the wall.” She scowled. “A lucky shot. Caught me by surprise.”

Left had just woken up, then, too. How long had both of them been out ? Anduin quickly looked behind his shoulder, and saw that it was still night.

“Here.” Anduin looked back at Left, numb. She’d crossed the room and had his cracked cane in her hand. She shifted the wood back in place with a creak of splinters and threw it to him.

“Are you okay?” Anduin asked. He’d already forgotten about her bruise.

“Fine. Are you?” She turned to give him a critical look, her eyes flicking up and around him, surveying his own bruises and blood. He nodded vacantly.

“I’m alright. Please, let’s just -” His eyes went to the door. The panic and gut-twisting found him again. “Let’s just go find him.”

The orc did not need to be told twice. She opened the door, and they went out to the hallway.

It was halfway destroyed. Anduin widened his eyes. Along one wall was a long, black scorch mark, where bits of paint and rubble still drifted from, as delicate as leaves. On the floor was a trail of oozing sha energy, and a hole was smashed through on the other wall. The whole hallway seemed to smoke. There was no sign of the Black Prince still being there.

Two of Anduin’s bodyguards were clumped together a bit farther down. The prince’s throat constricted. Left tried to grab him, but he managed to duck underneath her hand, and he started over as quickly as he could, kneeling down to the limp bodies to check for signs of life.

He was relieved to see them breathing. He let out a shaky sigh, closed his eyes for a moment to send a quick thank-you, then looked them over. Both had gashes along their Stormwind regalia – claw marks. The metal seemed to be like carved through like oil with Wrathion’s sha-talons.

“They need healing,” Anduin said. How had no one heard what had gone on up here?

The thunder of battle outside was the answer. No wonder the others in the courtyard hadn’t heard and come to aid!

Though, Anduin thought, he was glad they hadn’t, in a way. If they had seen Wrathion like Anduin had – they would have tried to kill him.

“No time. Leave them.”

Anduin looked up. Left had joined him.

“But they -”

“I see no mortal wounds. If you want to stay and heal them and abandon the Prince, fine.”

Anduin frowned, a slight glower in his eyes. Left was looking at the gem and not at him.

“What is that?”

“A gem.”

Anduin made an exasperated sound. “What does it do?”

“Contacts His Majesty’s agents. Be quiet. I’m going to speak.”

The orc put both hands around the gem and closed her eyes. The ruby began to glow after a moment. Anduin watched, fascinated, his worry forgotten for a mere moment.

“Abandon the search for Sabellian. His Majesty has been possessed by the Sha. Turn your sights to finding him. Do not use hostilities against him - Seek and Capture. All information on His Majesty will be sent back to me. I repeat, if some of you weren’t listening: His Majesty has been possessed by the SHA. Do NOT harm him. Seek and Capture.”

The glow faded. The orc opened her eyes.

“All of the Agents heard that?” Anduin asked. Left nodded as she pocketed the gem. The prince furrowed his brows. “I didn’t know you were having them search for Sabellian.”

“Only recently. I told them the situation, but not where the Prince was.” She looked around at the ruined hallway. “He’s left a trail. We can track him that way -”

“I think I might know where he would go.”

Left looked at him sharply. “Well, don’t keep it to yourself!”

Anduin stood. The guards would be alright; he’d glanced over them again and had assured himself their wounds were not, as Left said, mortal. Someone would find them soon enough.

“Come on. My gryphon -”

“I didn’t say you were going.”

Anduin stared at her. “You can’t be serious.”

“You’re ready to collapse. You can hardly stand upright! You were lucky with Sabellian in the cave, but this time you will be getting in the way.”

“Left.” Anduin took a couple steps closer to her. “I know I’m weak now, and I know I couldn’t purge him of the Sha when I could – but I can purge Sha. I did it at the Temple of the Red Crane. I helped Master Crane from the Sha of Despair itself, the very thing that’s tormenting Wrathion at the very moment. If I can sleep on the gryphon, I’ll be fine. But you can’t deny that not having me to help Wrathion will be a very bad mistake.”

Left squinted at him. Anduin drew himself up and stared back.

“And if he’s too far gone? What then?” Left asked with a low voice. “You saw the black drake in Kun-lai. Nothing could have saved that thing.”

“You don’t know that. I could have -”

“Do you know what the Sha came from, Anduin?”

Anduin was caught off guard by the question. “Well, negative emotions -”

Left interrupted him with a wave of her hand. “Yes, alright, negative emotions. But the Sha’s origins are from an Old God. Yshaarj.” Understanding came to Anduin’s face; his confusion fell. “They’re the very whispers of an Old God. I wonder how much worse they affect black dragons?”

Anduin took a deep breath. Oh. This was – this was news. He paused before replying. “Old Gods or not, I can still cleanse him. It’s still just the Sha. The drake –… the drake was just corrupted by the Sha, too. You saw him.” He frowned. “And if the drake was corrupted by something more because of the Sha, it doesn’t matter. Wrathion’s free from the corruption – right?”

Left stared at him. “Yes. But so are all mortals and dragons – besides Sabellian’s brood. But what stops the Old Gods from corrupting them because they were born without it?”

She shook her head. “Well, let’s hope you’re right, prince,” the orc mumbled. She began to walk passed him, down to the stairs, gesturing for him to follow, which he did. “And that I won’t, or you won’t, have to put a bolt or spell into His Majesty’s heart.”


	9. Chapter 9

“This won’t be easy.”

Anduin and Left hid behind one of the open archways that led out into the courtyard outside. The air was alive with the screams of bombs, the clashing of metal, and the firing of guns; the battle between the factions was heavily underway, and only continued to grow closer and closer to Lion’s Landing.

The skirmishes at the mines had risen in intensity until the Horde had finally decided to do a pressing assault on the Alliance fort as Anduin and Left had been unconscious.

It wasn’t good for the Alliance – their King was still in Ironforge – and it wasn’t good for Anduin and Left, who needed to get to the stables that were dangerously close to the defensive lines to get Anduin’s gryphon.

The prince flinched as one of the bombs exploded closer than the others had, maybe just outside on one of the towers. He couldn’t be sure with his position.

How were they going to get out of here, unseen and safely?

More importantly, how had Wrathion gotten out of here, if he had at all?

Anduin forced down his nerves and paranoia, still distressed at Wrathion’s sudden corruption. The Black Prince had stormed his way out from the top level, two-on-one with the guards, though the match was uneven and unlucky for the two humans.

Of course Wrathion had managed to somehow evade the battle, Anduin thought, trying to reassure himself – the dragon could have simply flown over.

He rubbed at his throat, which was beating with a sore pain from where Wrathion’s sha-touched hand had clutched it. A brown and blue bruise had already formed there, ugly and spotted.

Left was watching the empty courtyard intently. They hadn’t run into anyone when climbing down the stairs - everyone was scrambling outside to man the defenses.

“We can dodge out through here, then make our way through at a quick pace, keeping behind the battle lines if we can. I will be using some of my training to keep myself hidden - my skin will give myself away if I don’t. I will be ahead of you, so if I disappear, do not assume I’ve left you behind. I will be right there,” Left said. She glanced at Anduin’s right leg and cane, then back up at the courtyard ahead. “ Though you will have to walk fast, and keep up. I’m not falling behind for you.”

Anduin frowned. “How do I know if I’m keeping up if I can’t see you?”

“Just – follow my first pace before I disappear. Got it?”

Anduin sighed, but nodded soon after. He had no argument. The prince would force himself to keep up, regardless of the pain in his leg - he wasn’t about to let some physical weakness force him to stay behind when Wrathion was in trouble as it had threatened to do so in the cave at Kun-lai.

“Let’s hurry,” Anduin said. Who knows how far a start Wrathion had? Left didn’t remember quite when she’d been knocked out – she kept shaking her head, and Anduin knew her bruise was bothering her, though every time he’d offered to heal it in the past half hour they’d both been awake the orc had said she was fine – and Anduin didn’t recall what time it’d been when Wrathion had smashed him against the wall, only that it’d been around dusk.

It was night, now – they knew that much. The Black Prince was easily hours ahead, and each minute they spent wasting as they hid behind this archway was another minute that Wrathion had to hurt himself or sink deeper into his Despair.

Left huffed. “As if I don’t know that we need to hurry,” she grumbled. “Very well. Keep up, prince.”

She ducked out from underneath the archway and started out into the empty courtyard. Anduin was fast to follow, his limp heavy.

The orc hadn’t been lying when she said she was going to walk at a fast pace. Already Anduin felt his leg begin to cramp as they brisked their way out of the keep and into the open.

The moon was new and black, but the Alliance and Horde made up for the darkness with blazing fires and bursting magics that shot about the defense lines that had been set up near the other military building farther up. The towers outside Lion’s Landing were heavily manned, and gryphon riders dived down on the skirmishing Horde, the animals shrieking with war cries that had the same intensity as the wailing arcane spells that were being thrown back and forth, along with arrow and bullet.

Anduin had little time to take in the situation – his mind was already stretched thin with stress from Wrathion, and seeing the Alliance, his Alliance, being attacked was just making him feel worse – before Left vanished in front of his eyes, as she’d said she would.

Anduin ducked his head and hunched his shoulders as he walked, trying to keep the pace Left had had, as he headed towards the stables. The building was just outside the docks, which were relatively untouched. He prayed no one would see him. Dozens of soldiers, heroes, and other champions rushed back and forth, but no one seemed to notice the slim-bodied blond teenager in the chaos of battle.

His leg began to burn. Anduin grimaced and looked up through his bangs. The stable was just ahead. From this close to the defense lines he could feel the sizzle-hot of the fires and smell the stench of death – Anduin wanted to help… but what could he do? The prince was no fighter, and his skills as a priest were needed elsewhere.

But still – he’d seen the battles from the beach up in his room as he recovered and had watched them bitterly. Being right next to one was very different, and he wished he could help in some way, just as he wished he could be with his father in Ironforge. Why couldn’t he help everyone? Maybe if it was at another time –

“Prince Anduin?”

The blond flinched. He glanced to the side, and a human warrior had stopped mid-step to stare at him, his large iron sword smeared with blood in his metal-clad hands.

“Uh – hello, hero,” Anduin said. He didn’t stop walking, though his aching, screaming leg was begging him to. It shook with every step.

“You shouldn’t be out -!”

His head jerked back as a dent appeared in his rusty-colored helmet.

In nearly the same instant, someone grabbed Anduin by his tabard and started almost dragging him, the tips of his boots making lines in the sand, to the stables. Anduin yelped in surprise.

“Don’t talk!” Came Left’s voice. “Don’t even move!”

Anduin relaxed once he realized it was the orc, but tried to find where her invisible hands were. “I can walk!” He retorted. His fingers collided with an unseeable mass – Left’s hand – and he tried to awkwardly pry her fingers from his tabard, though her grip was rock solid.

He was so focused on trying to get her to stop dragging him that he hardly noticed that they’d made it to the stable. Left let go, and he stumbled, catching his balance by striking his cane out quickly on the ground and looking up.

Most of the mounts were gone – now out in the defense, no doubt. Left shimmered back to existence in front of the prince.

“Where’s your beast?”

“Follow me.”

Anduin quickly walked down the empty stalls. While they were inside a structure, the noise outside was just as violent, and the wood walls shook with each bang from the battlefield. A horse left behind whinnied nervously from somewhere unseen.

Anduin grinned as he made it to his gryphon’s stall. The bird was sitting, her leg freshly bandaged, on the straw, nibbling at the marrow of a bone in her talons. She quorked upon seeing the prince.

“Hello girl,” the prince said, then unlocked the gate and went inside. He put his cane to lean against the stall’s side and grabbed the saddle from the rack.

The gryphon dropped the bone and got to her feet lazily. She pushed her white-and-blue head into the prince’s chest. With his free hand, Anduin smoothed back the crest of feathers at the top of the gryphon’s head, before rounding around and getting her tacked.

It was mechanical and second-nature for him, and the work was almost meditative as he strung up the girdle, tightened it fast, and worked at the stirrups; it allowed him to focus and relax, a starkly different mindset from the jumbled panic he’d been trying to rein in from seeing Wrathion. The chaos from the battle silenced in the prince’s head. Left stood guard outside.

“Alright. Come on,” Anduin murmured, as he finished slipping the gold and leather harness over the gryphon’s face and grabbed the reins. He tugged back on them, but the gryphon refused to budge. She was beginning to look at him distrustfully.

He sighed and let the reins loosen.

“There won’t be any dragons today, I promise,” Anduin said, and pet the gryphon’s blue-tinted beak. She chortled.

Something smashed with a crack - Anduin jumped and looked around, and saw Left straightening from a duck, a mace impaled on wall next to her.

“Blasted orc! How did you passed the lines?!”

A human soldier in Stormwind-like regalia appeared from behind the wall and hurdled himself at Left. The rogue ducked again, twirling behind him with a dancing gracefulness. She slashed her hand out and cracked him in the back of the neck with a snap of her palm. The soldier crumpled.

Anduin pulled on the reins again, hard, his moment of meditation gone, and thankfully the gryphon responded and surged from the stall, as if picking up on her master’s sudden shift in mood.

“Please tell me you didn’t kill him.” Anduin looked down at the soldier sprawled on the floor.

“No. Get on the gryphon -”

An arrow whizzed passed Left’s head.

It only just missed her ponytail, but took a few strands of her black hair with it. Both the orc and the prince looked over at the opening of the stable – a night elf hunter with an enormous summit tiger had found them, and the elf was already reloading his bow again, aiming at Left, his eyes flicking over at Anduin.

It must have looked like the Blacktalon was cornering the prince. Behind the night elf stumbled in the human warrior Left had smashed in the head, his forehead bleeding.

Before the prince could say stop, it’s alright, I’m fine, Left grabbed him by the back of his tunic and slammed him down on the saddle, and was quick to hop on in front of him, grabbing the reins in her hands as her heels kicked hard at the animal’s sides. The gryphon leaped forward at a running start, barreling through the last stretch of the stable to the other open end, as another arrow shot passed.

Anduin latched his arms around Left so that he wouldn’t fall off and glanced behind, only to see the tiger gaining on the gryphon, its large paws outstretched and its teeth in a snarl. It jumped -

But so did the gryphon as she made it to the opening, the night sky revealed, and her wings caught the air quickly. The tiger’s teeth snapped at air and it fell back to the ground of the stable.

Anduin panted hard and looked away. They’d gotten out.

Left swung the mount in a heavy curve out to the sea; flying right above the skirmish was foolhardy, so curving around it was the smarter option. Slowly, the sound of battle fell away behind them. Soon they were above the large canopy of the Wilds, with only the buzz of insects as company. Anduin reined in his beating heart.

“I wish I could have helped,” Anduin mumbled, mostly to himself.

“Help what?”

“Oh -” He didn’t know Left could hear him. “-… with the skirmish.”

The orc snorted. “What could you have done?”

Anduin shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t know. Something.” He wanted to change the subject. “They’ll probably think that an orc’s kidnapped the prince of Stormwind, now,” he said with a humorless laugh.

“Mm. Hopefully we’ll return soon, and you can try to lie yourself out of this situation.”

Anduin said nothing. Wonderful, he thought. Another lie to tell his guards. When was it going to end?

“I’m flying aimlessly. Where are we going?” Left’s tone was gruff. “You said you had some idea where he might go?”

Anduin nodded. His focus sharpened. No – he couldn’t help with the skirmish, but he could help with Wrathion, and no other problem that presented itself and needed his attention would stop him from assisting the Black Prince.

“I think he might be going to the Veiled Stair.”

“… The Veiled Stair.”

“He mentioned it when he was -” He struggled to find the right word; Anduin didn’t want to say ‘possessed’ or ‘corrupted.’ The heavy information about the Old God’s ties with the Sha was thick on his mind. “-… Sick.” Anduin frowned. “He said it was his home. I know it’s destroyed, but maybe that’s why he’s going there.” The Sha of Despair was terrible and goading… if it was drudging up all of Wrathion’s worst feelings and fears, forcing him to look at them in the face, it might push him in the direction of his destroyed tavern, just to make him suffer worse. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Where else would he go?”

Unless, of course, Wrathion was wandering aimlessly in the Wilds below, or somewhere completely different. Anduin tried not to think about that; he was worried enough for the dragon.

I’m not a very good Prince, Anduin Wrynn.

But you will only die anyway, won’t you? Mortals live such little lives.

There’s no… purpose, is there?

The memory was sudden and forceful. Anduin scrunched his eyes closed. Quickly he tried to will them it away – the image of Wrathion, his hands claws, his eyes white, his desperate, sad, voice, was bright in his mind’s eye, a searing burn across his head - though try as he might it continued to stick to the back of the prince’s mind, unyielding, refusing to be forgotten.

He swallowed hard. Getting to the stables through the skirmish had occupied his mind, but now his worry about Wrathion, the terrible memory of his corruption, was once again intense in his mind as it had been when he’d woken against the wall in his room. Anduin’s chest constricted sourly.

He hoped he was right. Wrathion may have had a head start, but the gryphon was fast.

And then, Anduin could purge the corruption from the Black Prince, could heal his despairing heart and head, could tell him he was going to be alright -

“You could be right. We’ll see when we get there.” Left shifted the gryphon in the right direction of the Tavern.

“Now. You said you’d sleep on the gryphon, so sleep on the gryphon. I won’t have His Majesty’s security fail again because you were too tired to deal with him.” The orc’s words were harsh, but she paused, then added, “And I won’t let you fall off.”

Anduin’s eyelids, almost on their own, began to close at the mere mention of getting a chance to sleep. “Okay. But wake me up if you need to sleep, too, or -”

The orc scoffed. “Just go to sleep.”

Anduin closed his eyes. His arms tightened around Left’s waist again so he wouldn’t fall. Already his head began to droop.

And though Wrathion’s sha-white eyes were bright against his head, Anduin soon fell asleep.

—-

Wrathion collided against the ground. His twitching wings went askew, his claws fanned out, curled and white, his horns hit hard against the rock.

He stumbled to his feet instantly, driven by a manic force, and stumbled once, breathing hard, his legs giving out from underneath him again.

There was a sharp pain, pain in his front leg, in his chest, in his head, everywhere, pain, everywhere a sludge, a sigh, a gripping, terrible sadness that choked him. It tore at his eyes, it forced the screaming whimper from this throat as he got to his feet again, as black ooze and smoke drooled from the sides of his mouth, his eyes, his eyes which felt wet, dripping. Everything was terrible, everything was loss, everything, everything -

He stumbled forward, his wings limp. His chest was cold and sharp, twisting, he was cold, he was -

He wanted to lay down. He wanted to not get up. But he had to – he had to see – he had to see it -

His form grew till he stood as a human, and he clutched his terrible clawed hands at his hair and yelled, a cry at the back of his throat, and felt pinpricks of pain across his scalp, felt a wetness fall against his bare skin.

The pain only reminded him of the pain at the tavern, the tavern, his home, his destroyed, home, he needed to see it -

Everything was gone. Everything. Please. He wanted to lay down. He pulled at his hair. He wanted to go home. He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t special. He wasn’t good. What use was he? What use was he if he made mistakes? Useless. An abomination. He was an abomination. An experiment. He was nothing. He was useless. He couldn’t save anyone.

What was the point? Everyone – everyone would die. The Horde and the Alliance would kill themselves even when the Burning Legion came. What chance did they have? What chance did anyone have? The world would die. He would die. Seas of blood, the sky aflame.

He couldn’t do anything to stop them. Try as hard as he had, he still could do nothing. How they fought and fought and fought and fought…

And he could do… nothing… to make them… stop…

No hope. There was no hope for any of it. For anything – not just the Burning Legion.

His claws raked into his arm. More warm wetness, like in his hair, sprang there. He hardly registered the pain. He’d felt pain before. Pain at the tavern. Pain in the cave. Terrible, unspeakable pain. Even then he could do nothing. Couldn’t save himself. Useless. Useless. Pathetic.

Sabellian’s burning orange eyes appeared in front of him and Wrathion shot his head back with a startled cry. No, please, no more pain, please. Please make it stop.

A mere toy…

I feast on suffering…

Whose voice was that? It wasn’t his voice. Who was – who was that -

He’d realized there was no point to it. One slip and everything was tearing out his heart, bleeding. His eyes were heavy. His body shook. He was tired. He was sad.

Please, he wanted to lay down and disappear -

He couldn’t even save himself. Couldn’t defeat his brother. His own brother. Long lost brother. He was pathetic -

Anduin. Anduin Wrynn. Where was Anduin Wrynn? Was he dead? Had he died? He would die. He’d die. Even if the Burning Legion was fought back, he’d die. Everyone would die.

Lonely – please, he didn’t want to be lonely again -

He stumbled forward, nearly falling, and a choked sob hiccuped from his throat. He wanted to go home. He needed to see it. He needed – he needed -

Wrathion shifted and, clumsily, took into the air again.

—-

Anduin awoke with a start as the gryphon jostled hard underneath him.

He looked down groggily. Though it was dark below – the moon was new – he could make out the yawning fields of the Valley of the Four Winds, still and quiet in the darkness. The very landscape seemed to be frozen in time, as if in amber, and the only sounds were the gentle whoosh of the wind across the prince’s face and the flap of the white gryphon’s wings.

The prince looked away, yawning. His arms were draped loosely around Left’s waist, now, and his bangs were stuck to his face from leaning his head against the orc’s back. He bit the inside of his cheek, embarrassed - he hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep against her.

Anduin pulled one arm away and rubbed his eyes, which felt full of grit.

“How long do we have to go?” Anduin mumbled, ruffling up his stiffened bangs. A thought occurred. “Have we heard from any agents about him?”

“A while. And no. Go back to sleep.”

Anduin sighed. The wind ruffled at his hair.

He looked back down at the plains again, his eyes lidded. He’d managed to get some rest, which was good – he already felt stronger and much more alert – but he knew he needed more. When he’d purified Chi-ji from the Sha of Despair, Anduin had been ready and able, despite how unkind the wilds of Krasarang had been to him. With Wrathion, he needed the same energy.

Quietly, he mulled to himself as they flew. Something Left had said before they’d left was bothering him, but he hadn’t had a chance to ask about it before he’d fallen asleep.

“Left,” he started, and the orc made a low, aggravated noise the instant the prince spoke, as if annoyed he hadn’t fallen back to sleep. He ignored it and continued. “What you said at Lion’s Landing – about… about the possibility killing Wrathion. Why would you ever do that?” She was the Black Prince’s guard. Even if Wrathion fell to the Old Gods – Anduin shuddered just thinking about the terrible possibility – why would Left pull the trigger so fast?

The orc said nothing for a long time. Only the wind answered him, low and gentle.

It must have been at least ten minutes before Left spoke.

“There is one command His Majesty gave Right and I,” Left said. “A kill command.” She went silent again before continuing. “If he was to fall to the Old Gods, we would kill him as quickly as we could. It is as simple as that.” Her voice had become emotionless.

Anduin locked his jaw. He’d thought as much, considering her initial comment about Y’shaarj at Lion’s Landing, but knowing that Wrathion himself had put such a command in place…

His throat constricted. He looked down at the Valley again. Wrathion’s ego was great, and so was his independence - Anduin knew how important that was to him. He’d seen it in the bitter, terrible anger in the red of Wrathion’s eyes when the Black Prince had spoken of his hate of the Reds in one fleeting conversation the two princes had had over their pandaren board game one night – had seen it deepen as he explained how they’d tried to bar him away like some sort of hatched pet.

“The mighty Red Dragonflight couldn’t control me. And no one else will.” Wrathion looked back up at Anduin from the board, and his sudden intensity melted down to a sly grin. “I believe I’m winning the game, Prince Anduin.”

Of course Wrathion would be such a command in place, Anduin realized. The Old Gods had taken his father’s free will and had turned the great Earth-warder into their servant, a destroyer of a world he’d once protected, and had manipulated all of his kin to do the same.

Anduin thought fondly of Wrathion’s love for Azeroth, then. No - Wrathion would never allow such a thing to happen to him, to be twisted into a slave and forced, like his father, to wreak havoc on a world he was trying so hard to save.

But still – this was something completely different. Maybe the Sha were connected to a dead Old God – emphasis on dead, he told himself – but it was a large jump simply from being possessed by the Sha to be corrupted by the legendary Old Gods. Wrathion may have been a black dragon, but what did that matter, if Anduin looked at the situation plainly, with a critical eye? He was uncorrupted; it was like saying that if Anduin himself was possessed by the Sha, that he would be corrupted by the Old Gods… and the prince had never seen madness in those who had befallen the Sha at all – only the corresponding, negative feelings that went along with whatever Sha had taken them.

The more he thought about it, the better he felt. No – Left was just being pessimistic.

“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” he said with confidence.

“Yes, alright, you said that much back at Lion’s Landing, prince,” Left replied. “But as I said before, we’ll see how the Sha is affecting him – and if it happens that somehow the Old Gods have found him through this possession, then I will not hesitate to do my duty.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “And if you get in the way, I will not hesitate from killing you, too.”

Anduin stared at her. Left looked at him, a warning in her eyes, before turning back forward.

The prince cleared his throat after a couple of minutes had passed. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be so pessimistic. You should try to have a bit more h-”

“And perhaps you should shut your mouth and go back to sleep,” Left snapped. “Do you assume I want to kill my Prince? No. I will do my duty if need be, and if you start rambling on about hope and peace and kindness, so help me, I will shove you off the back of the gryphon.”

Anduin bit his lip and forced back his glower.

They were silent for a long time before Anduin spoke again. “Do the other agents know about the Kill Command?”

Left shook her head. “No. Only Righ-” She stopped, then started again. “Only I do. Seek and Capture is the command I gave to the agents. They’re not supposed to harm him.”

Anduin only nodded. That was good, at least.

He could tell Left was finished with the conversation but how her shoulders were hunched, how she glared forward. Anduin sighed. Apparently he wasn’t going to be able to convince the bodyguard against even considering the command.

The prince cast his eyes downward, and tried to go back to sleep.

—-

“Father should have been back by now.”

The night had enveloped Blade’s Edge Mountains. Neltharaku, the leader of the Netherwing, sat quietly on one of the mountains many cliffs, and overlooked the deep canyons below.

Across from him stood Samia, Sabellian’s eldest daughter. She was staring at the nether-dragon intently, a glint of a glare on her scaled face by the way her brows sloped down above her yellow-orange eyes. The fins atop her spine were stretched high, a showcase of annoyance.

Neltharaku said nothing. His ethereal, teal-blue body glowed in the darkness, as neon as the far-away streams of nether that encircled the sky above. He was as see-through as a ghost, and yet as palpable as Samia herself.

The nether-dragon had arrived a day ago to speak to Sabellian. The demons of Shadowmoon had begun to grow strangely restless, and were threatening to encroach upon the Netherwing’s territory. Samia had greeted him and explained the situation the Black Dragonflight had found themselves in, and Neltharaku had offered to stay a day more… and now here they sat, looking over the barren lands.

“He may have found complications,” the nether-dragon said after a moment. His voice was an echo, as ghost-like as his own body.

Samia scoffed and fluffed her wings.

“I should have gone with him,” she muttered. But no – he had left her behind, taking only two drakes with him. Granted, Talsian and Nasandria were the two strongest drakes in the remaining Flight, but Samia was fully grown, and much more powerful… and Sabellian had left her here.

“And the hatchlings and other drakes would have been left defenseless,” Neltharaku echoed. He turned his head to look at her, a gentle wake of nether streaming behind his gentle movement. “He was wise to leave you behind, niece.”

Samia snorted, but she could not argue. Her uncle was right, she supposed.

“He could have asked you to watch them,” she retorted, then. “You made the alliance with him so that our Flights could protect one another.”

Neltharaku stared at her before looking away. “So we did. Yet I was in Shadowmoon when my brother left for the Dark Portal, unable to be asked.”

Samia nodded offhandedly.

“I feel your restlessness, Samia. But do not fear for your father. He is very powerful. And this hatchling is only a hatchling.” He paused. “Though I still find myself… frustrated with the sacrifice of my two nether-drakes.”

“They went on their own accord.”

“So they did.” Neltharaku sighed, and swirls of nether curled from his nostrils. “But I know Sabellian. He is as a protective a father as I am. To use another’s children rather than his own to satisfy his own ends is less than unsavory.”

Samia scowled. “They volunteered. Be bitter as you wish, Neltharaku. But here you sit doing nothing about their deaths while my father has risked everything by going back to Azeroth to take care of this… child before he harms us again.”

She had not been there to see the gore of Ryxia’s assassination, but had been at her funeral pyre and had personally eaten half of the blood elf that had killed the younger drake.

The pang of a sibling’s death, however, was familiar to the dragon – she had been part of the same clutch of Sabellian’s elder children that had ended up impaled upon the rocks by the great gronn Gruul. Samia was lucky to have survived the onslaught.

Yet still, despite the familiarity of the pain, it did not stop the dragon from being very, very angry at the hatchling who had killed Ryxia, and frustrated that she could do nothing while Sabellian left her.

Neltharaku didn’t answer her. Samia shook her head. Sabellian had spoken his ill-thoughts of the Netherwings before – They are cowardly, Samia. Perhaps they were black dragons in the egg, but they lack a certain… intensity – and she saw it in the Netherwing leader now.

She looked back down at the canyon. She could just make out the arakkoa’s territory off to her left, patches of grass and large trees peaking through the sharp rocks.

“I just don’t know what’s taking so long,” she repeated. “What kind of… complications could there be?”

Neltharaku shook his head. “I do not know. All you and I can do, niece, is to await his return and hope for his success.” The nether-dragon sighed. “You Black dragons have your own problems, but I have mine. I do not understand why the demons are moving. They have been quiet since Illidan’s defeat until now.” His pearl-like claws tightened then loosened against the rock. “I may have to move all of the Netherwings.”

“Well, you can wait here with me to discuss that with father.”

“Indeed.”

They went quiet. Below, Samia could make out Alacian, one of the younger hatchlings, hanging out to the tail of one of the black drakes as the drake spun around in the air.

Samia snorted, and wished, again, for Sabellian’s safe return, as she watched her siblings play.

—-

The Veiled Stair was just ahead.

Anduin watched, silent, as Left eased the gryphon up to the tall, flat mountain, and the mists were quick to reach out and envelop them, cold and wet against Anduin’s face.

It was very quiet atop the peak. The orc landed the panting gryphon in front of the destroyed Tavern, behind the black husk of the great white tree that had once stood in front of the steps. As Left slipped from the mount’s back, grabbing the reins, Anduin surveyed the Veiled Stair with a frown. It was difficult to see in the night – though the darkness of the sky was gently beginning to peel away as dawn approached – but Anduin could make out the remains of the devastation, as fresh as he’d remembered. The smoke, like the fires that had created it, had died. There was no movement - not even a wind traveled here anymore. The only sound was the delicate twinkling of water up near the saurok cave, hardly audible, from the waterfall.

“Come on. No use staring.”

Anduin shook his head and blinked hard. For whatever reason his eyes had begun to prickle, threatening tears.

He grabbed his cane and slid from the gryphon. A plume of dusty dirt puffed from underneath his boots as he landed. The gryphon pawed at the ground, digging at the black, burnt grass.

“Do you see any signs of him?” Anduin asked. His voice was quiet. Left was turning her head back and forth, her blue eyes narrowed, across the destroyed landscape. She shook her head.

“No.”

Anduin swallowed. Left loosely draped the reins over one of the tree husk’s branches, which reached out at Anduin like a burnt cadaver’s hand, then shifted her crossbow from her back, into her arms. There was a metallic click as she loaded it.

He looked around as she loaded the crossbow – something caught his eye near the burned kite’s stand. Anduin walked toward it curiously – then blinked in surprise as he realized what it was.

The prince leaned and grabbed the white cloth, dirty and a bit scorched, from the ground. The red and gold band was cracked in one part, and the bright red gems were dull and scratched, but Wrathion’s turban, which he’d lost, here, obviously, was still in halfway decent shape.

The dragon would be glad to see this, Anduin thought with a small smile.

If he would be ever glad again at all. The prince immediately hated the thought, shook his head, and bundled the white cloth in a tight fit at the satchel at his belt.

“Come on. Let’s look.” Without waiting for her, Anduin started forward towards the Auction House. He’d caught more sleep on the ride, and was well-rested and ready, and very alert.

That did not stop him from being anxious, however. No amount of sleep could stem his worry.

The eeriness of the place wasn’t helping either. It was so quiet Anduin could hear his own clothes ruffle, even hear Left, who was usually as silent as a shadow, walk behind him.

Slowly, the two searched the Veiled Stair. Every glance, every lingering look, only to find nothing, made Anduin’s worry heighten, his heart beat faster. Had he been wrong about Wrathion coming here? Had he guessed incorrectly?

“Nothing,” Left murmured again, as they rounded around the Black Market House, coming back from looking along the peak. “I don’t know if His Majesty is even -”

Something flickered at the corner of Anduin’s eye. He looked over. His eyes widened.

“Left.”

The orc looked where the prince was. At the side of the mountain, on one of the rising rocks that built upon one another that made the rise up to Mason’s Folly, was a scorch-mark of oozing black energy. Grey-blue smoke rose from the small crater there.

Wrathion was here.

Anduin swallowed again, though it was hard to, for his throat was tight. He took a deep breath to center himself.

“Mason’s Folly,” he murmured. Of course. Wrathion’s favorite place on this mountain was that rise.

Left grunted. “Good places for me to hide up there. The rocks are craggy.”

Anduin glanced back at her. “Hide?”

They were talking in whispers. Why there were, Anduin didn’t know, but perhaps it was because of the silence of the mountain, or the danger of the situation.

“Mhm.” She wasn’t staring at him, but at the steps. “I am better in the shadows than I am in the open, prince. It is you who will be purging His Majesty, not me.” Left snorted at the look on his face. “I won’t abandon you. I will be right there – though you won’t be able to see me.”

Anduin bit his lip. He knew, too, why she was going to hid herself. “Left – about the Kill Command -”

“My duty is my duty. I will see what the Prince’s state is, and so will you. Remember what I warned you.”

And if you get in the way, I will not hesitate from killing you, too.

Anduin set his jaw. He nodded.

This was very delicate.

At least, he thought, he had enough energy for a purging spell now.

After a moment’s hesitation, the two started towards the steps. Anduin had climbed these before, mostly to prove to Wrathion he wasn’t as weak in his right leg as the dragon had poked fun at him to be, and it’d been painful. While some time had passed since then, and his leg had healed somewhat, Anduin still wasn’t looking forward to it again.

Nonetheless, they made their way up, Anduin forcing back his pain, shielding it behind a barrier. The Light was strong in his chest, calming him, focusing him, goading him onward. He accepted the gift graciously.

Anduin noted the trail of Sha energy that was scattered across the carved stairs whose steps – hardly steps, really, but huge mounds of carved-out rock - were chiseled from the very earthen rock itself, half-finished and forgotten. The Sha pools were almost like a trail of blood.

Anduin paused. Strangely, his leg wasn’t bothering him. The Light was with him, he reminded himself. Despite his odd sense of calm, that hissing sense of worry in the back of his eyes was still there, prickling, needle-like. A couple more steps around one of the rocks, blocking their view of the paved rise, and they’d be at the top.

He glanced back – but Left was gone, hidden already.

Anduin frowned and looked back around. She wasn’t going to abandon him, or her Prince.

The Prince of Stormwind closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and made his way around the bend and up the top of the stairs. The rocks to the side fell away, and the rough stone flattened out into smoothed surface of rock. A large tree, untouched by the flames, fanned out to Anduin’s right. Ahead was the balcony, crude but oddly beautiful in its elegant simplicity, and square, slightly-lifted platform carved with geometric shapes seemed to almost grow from the rock floor.

And, standing at the balcony, was Wrathion.

His back was to Anduin. The dragon’s hands, black and white and curled with Sha claws, were spread, propped up along the bannister as he hung his head down. His shoulders jutted out, angular.

And along his spine jutted spikes, one for each vertebrae. They were tiny at the small of Wrathion’s back, but grew in size and in width the farther up along the spine, black and glowing and tipped with the same ethereal Sha-white that was one Wrathion’s claws.

A faint, glowing darkness surrounded his form, as gentle as the Veiled Stair’s mists – but it looked sickly, and curled off of Wrathion in twisting circles.

Anduin ground his teeth. Wrathion had just gotten worse.

But Anduin had gotten his rest. He was ready.

“Wrathion,” Anduin called out. His voice was strong, but calm, and not provoking. “I’m glad we found you.”

Despair was killed with hope. Anduin had gone over what he was going to say to Wrathion, how to combat the dragon’s overwhelming sadness, and had decided to act like he normally did around the Black Prince – maybe it would comfort the dragon, or reach into the still-sane and coherent part of him.

But this was very, very delicate. One wrong word and Wrathion might snap as he had in Lion’s Landing, when he’d thrown Anduin against the window.

Wrathion tilted his head. He rose slowly from his heavy slouch against the bannister and turned to Anduin, the Sha energy that whisked around his form leaving a hissing wake. His head remained cocked to the side – it looked like he didn’t even have the willpower to hold it upright.

The Black Prince sighed and regarded Anduin vacantly white his white, glowing eyes. The shadows that surrounded the eyes themselves dripped and curled from behind the sockets.

“Anduin Wrynn,” Wrathion said. Again his voice was a sigh, sad. “You’re surprisingly still alive.”

Anduin kept the frown off of his face. He found himself wondering why the dragon thought he’d died at all, but he was quick to recall Wrathion’s ramblings in the keep, about Anduin’s lifespan in comparison to the Black Prince’s. He forced a smile.

“Yes, I am.” Anduin took a careful two steps forward. The Light moved from his chest, down to his left hand. Just one powerful purging spell, and Anduin could rip the Sha from Wrathion.

But he needed to be close.

Wrathion watched him. He tilted his head.

“Why are you up here?”

“To see you.” Anduin smiled earnestly at the dragon.

Wrathion laughed – a short, hiccuping, hollow chuckle that was more of a sob than anything. The black shadow about him pulsed.

“To see me. I’m of no use to you, Anduin Wrynn.” He eyes unfocused. “Nor am I of use to anyone.” Wrathion’s gaze flickered behind him at the steep drop.

“Of course you are,” Anduin replied, then took one small step forward. He’d adopted his slightly playful, slightly teasing, tone he often used with the Black Prince. “Who else would I have to argue with over everything?”

Wrathion stared at him. For a moment, his brows furrowed, and he looked confused, lost – but the vacant dreariness was soon back on his face.

The dragon shook his head, then rose a hand and pulled at his hair, almost like an afterthought, before trailing his claws down the side of his neck, leaving gently bleeding marks. Anduin bit his lip and forced himself to stay put.

“Besides, I don’t really think Azeroth has any chance against the Legion without you,” Anduin added quickly. Maybe if he could just tap into Wrathion’s ego -

“We don’t stand a chance at all,” Wrathion groaned. He looked at Anduin in exasperation, his eyes wide. “I explained this, didn’t I? Or do I have to explain how much of a failure I am again, Anduin Wrynn? Must I have to go into detail about everything?” The dragon hiccuped.

Anduin paused. He continued, choosing his words carefully. “I remember what you told me, Wrathion. But I couldn’t say what I wanted to tell you.” He took another step. Wrathion only stared, eyes lidded, his face a mere mask of sorrow and pain. “You said there wasn’t any purpose -”

“There isn’t -!”

“- But there is.” Anduin interrupted. “Wrathion, you know there is.”

“Maybe I did,” Wrathion hissed. “Not anymore.”

“Because you’re possessed by the Sha, Wrathion! You’re not yourself.” Wrathion only shook his head, not understanding. Anduin sighed, but pressed on. “You love Azeroth. You know the Burning Legion is coming. You want to protect it. That’s purpose for – for living enough.” He hesitated, then continued. “And mistakes – they’re natural. Maybe you didn’t know about Sabellian, and maybe he – did destroy your home, but you have people who care about you and who are going to make you it better. Like me. And your Blacktalons.”

Wrathion stared for a moment. He laughed then same sobbing laugh, then, and pulled at the ripped sleeves of his white tunic, which was bloodied. Anduin noted slash marks across his upper forearms, bright red against the dark skin that had not been touched by the same sticking blackness that had crept up and transformed Wrathion’s lower forearms.

“You should hardly care about me,” Wrathion replied. He disregarded everything else Anduin had said. “I’m – worthless. And I’m an abomination.” His unfocused eyes began to sharpen on Anduin again. “The experiments – I – they -” He scrunched his eyes closed and let out a low, painful whine.

“Wrathion -”

“I’ll only – I’ll become just like him,” Wrathion murmured.

“Like who?” Anduin asked, confused.

“My father,” Wrathion responded, louder. “My father.” He looked up at Anduin sharply.

“I can – hear them.” Wrathion’s eyes went wide. He looked at Anduin desperately.

The prince froze. He couldn’t mean -

He thought of Left hiding; the Kill Command. No – she couldn’t shoot him. Anduin locked his jaw. Wrathion could… could mean anyone…

But he knew who Wrathion meant. And surely so did Left.

He pressed on, panicked. He prayed Left wouldn’t do it, would let him have a chance. Just a couple more moments with the Black Prince – please, just let the prince have a chance to heal him.

“Wrathion, I know you’re scared, but -”

“I am not SCARED.” The Black Prince shook his head back in forth, his hair flicking around his face. He stopped suddenly, then mumbled to himself. Anduin could make out the words pathetic and failure.

Anduin walked a step closer as Wrathion distracted himself. His heart was hammering.

This was his chance. The Light already manifested in his arms began to grow and strengthen, curling down to his wrist and then to his hand, to his palm, to his fingertips.

“You’re going to be alright, Wrathion,” Anduin said. His hand began to glow.

Wrathion’s eyes shot down to the light. His lips began to curl back over his sharpened, lengthened teeth.

Anduin didn’t give him the chance to move. The Light shot from his hands in a near-fiery arc, right at Wrathion -

The dragon blurred. Anduin eyes widened. Wrathion came back in focus – all the way to the side of the platform and the purging spell slammed and dispersed with a hiss against the bannister.

The speed was inhuman – even if Wrathion was a dragon, there was no way he could have moved that fast if he wasn’t possessed.

“You are trying to hurt me!” Wrathion yelled at him. There was that bobbing, desperate tone in his throat, hoarse and high-pitched. “YOU are!”

Anduin hadn’t taken into account Wrathion’s intensified reflexes from the Sha. “I’m trying to help -!”

Wrathion snarled. Before Anduin could even think, the dragon had grabbed him and flung him back into the tree that grew to the side.

The bark cracked and splintered from the sheer impact. Anduin’s back went alight with pain, electrifying and white-hot. He blinked his eyes hard, momentarily stunned, and the blue sky greeted him as his vision focused.

The tree groaned and began to lean back – it was going to fall off the edge.

Anduin scrambled forward. He could see Wrathion advancing again, his demonic hands loose at his sides. The tree gave another creak, and the dragon was nearly on him -

Left burst from the opposite side of the platform and slammed into her Prince. Wrathion yelped, and the two went falling to the floor with a crack.

Anduin managed to scramble from the falling tree, nearly collapsing as his feet struggled to find purchase on the stone floor. He only just got his balance when the tree cracked backwards.

Wrathion and Left were struggling with one another. The dragon had managed to stand, but Left grabbed him and slammed him down into the floor once more. The Black Prince snarled and swiped at her face, but Left jumped to her feet.

But so did Wrathion. They were moving so fast Anduin couldn’t safely shoot off his spell, in fear of hitting Left.

Wrathion managed to find purchase on Left. He shoved her into the rock she had jumped behind.

The Black Prince whirled to face Anduin – and Anduin let loose the second purge.

This time, it hit. It burst against Wrathion’s chest, searing up his neck, and the dragon yelled out in pain. Some of the Sha-smoke shot from his form, fleeing – but not all of it.

Anduin scowled. He’d have to do it again; Wrathion’s corruption was too deep for only one.

He ducked as Wrathion leaped forward, recovering too quickly, sweeping a claw at the blond’s face. Wrathion didn’t stop trying to hit the prince; he kept coming at Anduin, his moves clumsy, jerky, mechanical, reminding Anduin of the drake’s movements in the Kun-lai cave, in his panicked desperation fueled by the remaining Sha. Anduin dodged twice more before his thoughts came to him again and he slammed a shield around him.

The dragon’s claws swiped harmlessly once against the bubble of Light. An unearthly wail not his own escaped Wrathion’s throat, echoing and demonic.

“I don’t wish to kill you, Anduin Wrynn,” Wrathion groaned. “But I have to. I need to – I need to – end this - please-”

Wrathion stumbled back. Anduin went to summon another purging spell, but the dragon saw.

The shield flickered away. Anduin was distracted by making the spell. The Black Prince surged forward at him, and, out of instinct, panicked at the charge, the blond struck his cane out.

It cracked Wrathion across the face. The dragon stumbled, stunned.

“Ow!” The Black Prince, for the briefest, fleeting moment, sounded like himself.

Anduin took the opportunity. “Wrathion, listen to me - I’m trying to help you!”

Wrathion stared at him, dazed – but like it had before the despair swept back up his face like an ooze.

“You can’t help me, dear prince,” Wrathion retorted. The sigh, the sadness, the corruption, had quickly come back to his voice.

He snatched Anduin before the prince could move, twisted, then pushed him against the bannister; the rock was hard and painful against Anduin’s already-injured back.

Wrathion put his face close. “I am an abomination, Anduin Wrynn.” The Black Prince’s hysterical anger was gone. “I can never be helped. I’ll end up just like him, won’t I?”

His claws were digging into one of Anduin’s shoulders.

“You’re not your father, Wrathion,” Anduin said, his voice struggling to keep back the pain. The Light bloomed in his chest, and he was able to push passed the agony in his shoulder. He looked up at Wrathion with a nearly smug smile.

“And I think you can be helped.”

Anduin shoved his hand up. His palm went flat against Wrathion’s chest and it surged with bright, shining Light, seeping quickly into the dragon’s white tunic, into his skin, his muscles, his blood. Wrathion arced back with a cry, mixed with the same haunting, echoing wail, and went to tear himself away from the blond, but Anduin dropped his cane and snatched onto the dragon’s leather sash and pulled him back down, baring his teeth. The powerful energy of Light was bounding and twirling up Wrathion’s shoulders and down his arms, forcing the Sha from his skin, where the corruption bounced away like oil against water.

It was hurting the Black Prince – Anduin saw as much in the way the dragon was trying to pull away, how his muscles were tense but shaking, how his teeth, which were beginning to slowly shrink down to their normal point, were bared back in a snarl as he yelled in agony. But the prince of Stormwind couldn’t let go. Determined, he pressed on, the Light ashine in the whole of his hand, vibrant and pulsing. He needed to destroy all of the Sha – if only a fraction was left, the deep possession would latch on again.

Wrathion’s claw, which was still twisted by the Sha, pushed into Anduin’s shoulder, deeper into the flesh. The pain was acute and hot – Anduin’s head nearly seemed to shake with it. But Anduin kept up his spell, though it flickered for a moment, even as Wrathion’s claws continued to dig.

But the pain was weakening him. Wrathion, in his own pain, even seemed to notice. He tore back quickly, and Anduin could not keep his grip on the Prince’s sash.

Wrathion stumbled back as Anduin forced himself, blood dripping from the wound and staining the blue cloth at his shoulder, from the bannister. He pushed back the ache – the ache in his shoulder, in his back, and the ache that had returned from his leg from the stress of the situation.

The smoke was curling off of the Black Prince in thick wakes, now, white and grey and haunted. Wrathion’s shoulders slouched, his arms hanging loose at his sides, as the Sha continued to flee from his body – the black corruption itself was wailing in that same terrible, haunting echo as it dispersed.

Tears – from pain, or from the sadness being ripped from him, which no doubt made all of the despairing feelings worse – were slick against Wrathion’s face.

Anduin panted hard – but this wasn’t over yet. The Sha was starting to slow its run from the Black Prince’s body, and Wrathion’s bloodied claws had yet to transform back to their healthy forms.

Anduin lurched forward. He grabbed Wrathion by the shoulders, and saw that the spines at Wrathion’s back had gone. The Black Prince looked up at him, the glowing white of his eyes wide and desperate, pleading.

“Help me.” The black around the glow had disappeared as well, but Anduin could see it struggling to surge forward again, struggling to grip back onto Wrathion’s pain and despair.

Anduin wasn’t about to let that to happen. He moved his hands closer to Wrathion’s cold neck and the Light, which had briefly flickered out when the pain in his shoulder had gotten too intense, was quick to come back into his fingers again.

“It’s okay, Wrathion. It’s okay.”

The glow intensified. It sunk down to wrap around, vine-like, at Wrathion’s arms. Anduin could see, from the corner of his eyes, the Light brushing away the Sha from Wrathion’s arms; the sludge began to peel off and disappear, starting from Wrathion’s spiked elbows, revealing Wrathion’s sable skin and natural arm underneath. The Light continued donward, and still the Sha fled once again, until the claws had shrank and had gone completely.

But Anduin wasn’t really looking down there. He was looking at Wrathion. He directed the Light up towards the dragon’s face, felt the Black Prince shaking underneath his touch, felt the dragon’s pain, felt the reflection of the despair Wrathion felt.

The dragon’s skin seemed to glow as the Light sank underneath it. Wrathion cried out, then stumbled back – Anduin fell with him, and the two collided hard on their knees at the stone platform, and even Anduin, who had been composed the entire time, let out a cry of pain of his own as his right knee hit the hard surface, sending a numbing shock up the entirety of his leg.

Wrathion stopped yelling abruptly. His head was lolled back, his throat bared. Anduin panted. He moved his hands, cautiously, from Wrathion’s neck to his shoulders again.

The Black Prince’s breath was labored. It was quiet for a long moment. Anduin was tense, his fingers near to twitching, as he readied himself for the possibility of the Sha coming back. He could hear his own heart beat; it was as quiet as it had been below Mason’s Follow.

Wrathion groaned. Slowly, he lifted his head, though it just sank back down so his chin was nearly resting on his chest. Anduin locked his jaw so hard the muscles there began to grow numb.

The dragon lifted his head up. He opened his eyes, dazed, and blinked hard twice, before he focused on Anduin with some confusion.

“Prince Anduin?” Wrathion croaked. His voice was tired, surely, but he spoke in his normal, smarmy lilt, and not in the despairing sigh.

Wrathion’s eyes were red. And they were glowing.

Anduin grinned widely.

“You’re okay!”

And then all at once, the stress, the pain, the panic, the worry, fell away, replaced by simple happiness.The Sha was gone.

Anduin’s hands slid up swiftly, a quick, jerking movement. They moved as if on their own to Wrathion’s neck again, coming to rest just below his skull -

And before he could really think, Anduin pulled, nearly shoved, the Black Prince into a forceful, happy kiss.

Wrathion’s lips were cold against the blond’s, but Anduin found himself uncaring, his fingers curling back to grip onto Wrathion’s hair the same moment Wrathion returned the kiss.

They kissed for a moment longer, lingering, before Anduin pulled away. His heart and breathing weren’t thumping from panic, anymore, but rather something else.

Wrathion smirked at him, lazily. Anduin laughed once, quickly, and kissed him again, but pulled away a second later.

“Are you feeling alright?” Anduin asked, then, though his head was still blurred from the kiss.

He glanced over the Black Prince. He didn’t look alright… he looked pale, but not ashen or grey, like he had with the Sha infestation.

“Oh -” Wrathion’s frowned, blinked lopsidedly, and furrowed his brows. “I feel – ohhhh.”

He finished his sentence with a groan and his head fell flat against the blond’s shoulder. All of the dragon’s weight leaned into Anduin as well.

Anduin’s own body was leaning back with the extra weight, but he grunted and pushed them back up to a parallel position.

“… I guess I’ll take that as ‘bad,’ then,” Anduin said. The Sha had certainly gone, but Wrathion was still cold against him, though was not shaking – not yet. The disease was still there.

But Anduin couldn’t shake the relief, the eager happiness, despite that.

Wrathion was okay. He wasn’t corrupted anymore.

Anduin combed his fingers through the back of Wrathion’s hair, where they were already intertwined.

“Seems you were successful.”

Anduin turned his head. Left stood his side, looking down at the crumpled Black Prince. Her blue, black, and brown uniform was torn at the back from being crushed against the rock, and her bruise from Lion’s Landing was more evident and blacker now.

Anduin smiled at her and nodded. Left’s lips twitched, briefly, in a small of her own, before it disappeared from her face.

“Good. I was glad I didn’t shoot him.”

Wrathion, his face still buried in Anduin’s shoulder, grunted.

“My apologies for offending you, your Majesty,” Left added, though didn’t sound sorry. The orc looked at Anduin. “Are you alright?”

Oh – the wound at his shoulder. He’d nearly forgotten.

“I will be,” Anduin replied. “But first we need to get Wrathion stable. He’s still ill.”

“We can’t go back to Lion’s Landing.”

“What?” Anduin looked back at her sharply. “Yes, we can.”

“Have you found a good lie to explain the hallway and your room, prince? Or me ‘kidnapping’ you?”

Anduin faltered. “Well – no. But I will.”

Left snorted. She hesitated for a moment, considering, before saying a quick “fine.”

Anduin curled his hand in Wrathion’s hair more than they already were. He frowned.

“We could stay here,” the prince said. He looked around, but tried not to jostle Wrathion too much as he did so. “The Black Market House is untouched. We could rest for a while. I don’t think Wrathion’s ready to move, yet.”

The dragon mumbled. Anduin took that for a yes.

Left was looking down at the Auction House. She nodded. “Alright. We’ll set up there and wait until His Majesty is strong enough to travel.” The orc looked back at Anduin. “I can carry the Prince if -”

“No. I can walk him there.”

Left paused. She glanced at Wrathion, looking unsure for the first time, before grunting, her face masked again. Anduin watched her quietly.

“I will meet you there, then,” the orc murmured, and made her way down the steps, soon disappearing beyond the rock.

Anduin smoothed his fingers out from Wrathion’s matted black hair. Already the Black Prince was growing colder against him, the smooth skin on his face like chilly marble as it rested near the blond’s neck and jaw.

“Can you stand?” Anduin asked. Asking the dragon to shift was a stupid idea. Wrathion hardly had the energy to speak, and assuming he had the energy to change his entire form wasn’t exactly wise.

He tilted his head, the angle awkward, in an attempt to look at Wrathion at his shoulder. The dragon had opened his eyes, but was glowering, weak-gazed, downward at nothing in particular.

Anduin took that as a ‘no.’

“Alright. I’m going to help you stand up.”

Wrathion flicked his eyes up to Anduin and narrowed them.

The prince moved his arms so they were wrapped around the dragon’s waist. His right leg began to tense in anticipation for the strain.

Anduin strengthened his hold and made sure it was tight enough where Wrathion wouldn’t slip between his arms, and slowly, he rose from his kneeling position, hauling the Black Prince up with him. His right leg shook and locked, but he grimaced and forced himself through the whining pain.

Wrathion was limp. Anduin exhaled loudly, a hiss through his teeth.

“You need to help me, here,” the blond grumbled, his voice thick with strain.

The Black Prince didn’t move – but soon his legs shifted, shaking as much as Anduin’s right one was, and his feet found purchase on the stone. The dragon growled, but the extra leverage was all Anduin needed to push them both up to a full standing position.

Wrathion took that for incentive to go limp again and his entire weight began to lean forward on Anduin. The blond put out his left leg to keep himself up, and struck his cane out in front for more hold.

“Wrathion, I’m going to fall over if you don’t work with me!” Anduin said. He pushed Wrathion back, so that not all of the dragon’s weight was pushing into the blond prince, and moved himself so he was at Wrathion’s side, his left arm wrapped rightly around the dragon’s upper torso.

Wrathion’s head was hanging, his hair falling around his face, but the dragon was watching him. He looked a bit annoyed.

“You’re too heavy for me to carry you,” Anduin explained when he saw the look, rolling his eyes, as he made sure that he could hold onto Wrathion while still holding himself up with his cane. The position seemed sound, but it was going to be difficult to go down the steps. He was beginning to regret sending Left away.

Wrathion huffed. It was odd, Wrathion not speaking as often from being so weak – but even then, Anduin could hear all the words the Black Prince would have said, just by the dragon’s sideglances and grumbles.

“Ready to walk?” Anduin raised a brow at Wrathion.

The dragon bobbed his head up and down once. His eyes became trained on his own feet.

Slowly, Anduin started walking. He kept the grimace off of his face as his right leg registered the stress, the extra weight – the prince’s limp was heavy. Wrathion dragged behind him for the first couple of strides, but soon the Black Prince was walking, just as slow as Anduin.

“I don’t think you should make fun of my mobility after this,” Anduin said, raising a brow at the dragon. Wrathion rolled his eyes.

“Hilarious,” the Black Prince grumbled. He coughed once after speaking, then scowled at himself before going silent again.

They made their way off of Mason’s Folly and down to the Black Market House.

Anduin wanted to tear off his right leg by the time they got to the untouched building. It felt like it’d be thrown in a fire.

Wrathion, too, was shaking hard. He’d grown even colder since the walk, as if the gentle drain of energy from talking the trip down had sucked out the warmth from his skin.

Anduin led the Prince inside. It was darker in here, cooler. Wrathion sighed.

The blond turned and set Wrathion down on the counter. The dragon slouched.

“Left? Are you -? Oh.” The orc had appeared from the back room of the small building.

“It’s secure. Anyone who pilfered this place seems to have left already.”

Anduin frowned. “The items have been stolen?”

“You can see for yourself when you get in the back room. His Majesty can rest inside. It’s dark.”

The prince turned to the dragon. “Just a couple more steps and you can go to sleep.”

Wrathion looked up at him blearily.

Anduin sighed in mock-exasperation. “Come on.” He put his arm around Wrathion again and hauled the dragon to his feet. The Black Prince hissed.

Left came forward and flanked the other side of Wrathion, and like Anduin, put her arm around the Prince. Anduin was glad for the help. The two moved him passed the counter and through an open door that seemed to be made to look as if it was part of the wall, and into the back room.

It was dark, as Left had said. Shelves were lined across the sides… but there was little left there, anymore, save for a handle of items that hadn’t been stolen. Anduin glanced around as they led Wrathion to the back corner. He wondered again what had happened to Madame Goya and her Exchange Guards.

Gently, the orc and the human set Wrathion down. The dragon leaned back against the corner and closed his eyes instantly.

Left and Anduin watched him quietly for a moment. The prince glanced over at her.

“Thank you, Left,” the prince said, quietly. The orc sideglanced him. She understood what he was referencing – when she’d saved him from Wrathion, when the dragon had tossed him into the tree. The orc nodded.

“I’ll be outside. Let me know when the Prince is ready to travel, Anduin.”

She turned and left without another word. Anduin watched her go. It was the first time she’d called him by his name.

Anduin looked down at Wrathion again. He sighed. The Sha had left him, but that didn’t mean the disease had; he shook and quivered as badly as he had at Lion’s Landing.

When was this nightmare of the Black Prince’s going to end?

The prince ran a hand over his face, then combed back his hair. At least the SI:7 was tracking down the dragon in the Jade Forest, Anduin mused.

“Hmm.” Anduin turned his head, then swept his eyes around the emptied room. It was quiet inside – the only sounds were Wrathion’s ragged breaths and the faraway buzz of the waterfall behind the Tavern – and so very peaceful. Hopefully it wouldn’t take long for Wrathion to fall asleep, but one thing would help a bit more.

Anduin smiled brightly when he found something that would suit. He limped over. It was a large, square blanket, gently quilted and patterned. Anduin recognized what it was immediately – a horse’s throw-over for winter weather. He set his cane aside so he could grab it from the rack it was held over.

It still smelled like horse, but it was big and warm – what huge a horse had this been used for, Anduin wondered – and would suit his needs.

His shoulder began to ache as he lifted the blanket from the rack. Anduin grimaced – his back was to Wrathion – and set the blanket back down.

The prince looked at his shoulder, peeling back his blue poncho, which stuck fast to the white tunic because of the blood. He eyed the deep puncture marks, which still bled.

He should heal himself before Wrathion could see it – he hadn’t yet. Quickly, Anduin raised a hand and began to do so.

“What could you possibly be doing over there?”

Wrathion sounded impatient and tired. His words were a groan, only just intelligible. Anduin glanced over his shoulder at him, and saw the Black Prince leaning slightly, trying to look around Anduin to see what he was doing.

“Nothing,” Anduin called back, then looked away, knowing he sounded distracted.

The wound was quick to close, but it was still sore. Anduin dropped the bloodied poncho back over the place where the holes used to be, then turned his attention to the blanket again. Now that he’d taken care of himself, he could focus on taking care of Wrathion. He grabbed the blanket.

Anduin went back to Wrathion, who had closed his eyes again, and, gently, his own leg still aflame from walking down Mason’s Folly, he eased himself down next to the Black Prince, using the wall behind him as leverage so he wouldn’t fall on his face.

One of Wrathion’s eyes flickered open as Anduin situated himself next to the dragon. The blond sprawled out his legs, sighing with relief as the stressed muscles in his right joints popped and relaxed. He twisted his ankle around in a gentle circle, then stilled it, bringing the blanket up.

“Here. This might help,” Anduin said, his voice a near-whisper, as he draped the blanket over Wrathion, leaving only a sliver for himself. The dragon wrinkled his nose. Anduin laughed quietly. “Sorry. I know it smells like horse. But it’s warm, isn’t it?”

Wrathion grumbled. He closed his eyes again, curling in on himself, but Anduin was happy to note his intense shaking had lessened somewhat.

Anduin smiled and made himself comfortable against the wall, though he could feel the chill from the dragon to his side radiating off despite their shared blanket.

“Wrathion?”

“Mm.”

Anduin paused. This has happened so quickly – Wrathion being wholly possessed to the Sha to being right next to him in the darkness of the Black Market House. It was a bit dizzying… but how dizzying could it be for Wrathion, who had been the one corrupted?

“Do you – I don’t know. Do you want to talk about i-?”

“No.”

“Are you sur-”

“Yes.”

Wrathion opened his eyes to glare at the blond, a warning, before they flicked back closed. He grumbled something under his breath before going still again – or as still as he could with the quivering.

Anduin frowned, but decided to let it go. Maybe he would try again later.

He sighed and closed his eyes, relaxing. His mind drifted to the kiss. His body was aching, and the darkness and silence was beginning to take hold of him.

Anduin must have partially fallen asleep when something moved in front of his eyes. Groggy, Anduin opened one of his eyes a the smallest of slivers.

One of Wrathion’s hands was in front of his face, the claws still tipped with his blood. The dragon’s fingers waved shakily again.

The dragon was testing if Anduin was asleep.

Anduin swallowed back a smile. Wrathion didn’t seem to see that the prince had woken up from his very brief slumber – the blond’s eye was hardly opened at all, save for the slightest, smallest crack possible. Anduin slowly set his eye sideways to watch the Black Prince.

Wrathion had his head tilted. He was uncomfortably slumped against the very corner of the wall – he must have shifted from his original position – with his shoulders hunched in on himself and his legs curled up awkwardly. The Black Prince frowned, then dropped his hand before casting a suspicious, red-eyed gaze to Anduin. He squinted hard at the prince, tilted his head the other way, and furrowed his brows.

What was he doing? Anduin almost laughed. His inspecting, searching look was as if he was glancing over a toy.

After another quiet minute of inspection, Wrathion shifted. Anduin watched quietly as the dragon pushed himself up from the uncomfortable corner, his back shaking, his teeth pulled back in a painful scowl.

Wrathion moved so his side was leaning against Anduin’s. The dragon’s skin was cold against the blond’s, despite Anduin wearing his thick white tunic.

Wrathion eyed him again, then poked the side of Anduin’s face with the tip of his claw.

Anduin didn’t move.

Satisfied, Wrathion tilted his head so it was resting against Anduin’s, then closed his eyes.

Already Anduin could feel the heat from his own body leaving – Wrathion had wanted Anduin for warmth, it seemed - but he didn’t mind. It was hard not to smile. He opened his mouth to poke fun at the dragon, but the words sizzled away and he closed his mouth again.

He leaned back against Wrathion and went back to sleep.

—-

Sabellian flew high above the clouds, his great red wings stirring the air around him.

It was a only just morning, and the sun had risen from the horizon with all of its pinks and oranges and reds, utterly ignored by the black dragon. He’d been sleeping, as he had done beforehand during his small but informative stay in the Jade Forest, upon one of the tall green peaks, high enough where only the curious cloud serpents could see him. The dragon had thought to wake earlier… but had ultimately decided to treat himself to an extra hour or two of rest, well-spent and well-needed, for Sabellian was very pleased with himself.

The potions, carefully concocted in a hastily erected alchemist’s worktable with all of the vials and burners and ingredients, had completed their transmutations.

And they were perfect.

Sabellian smiled to himself, smug. They were placed in his raptor-hide bag, which he’d padded with extra lining of thick cloth for their safety, and shared the room with the mechanical whelp. He had not yet heard from Nasandria, but had not expected to, yet. It was a hard flight from Pandaria to the Badlands.

The satchel was tied along one of his horns; he had tried tying the damn thing around his wrist, only to discover the strap was not big enough to go the entire way around.

Perhaps he looked a bit foolish, but Sabellian found himself uncaring. His drifting flight was almost lazy, his legs loose. He had but one more stop to make before swooping back around and making his way directly south to Lion’s Landing.

Speaking to the mortals had been incredibly enlightening. He’d learned more than enough about Wrathion’s two-faced schemes, and turning them against the Black Prince, using the little whelp’s own plots against him, had been very enjoyable. Mortals were quick to find offense – just like dragons, Sabellian supposed.

He tilted his wings to curve around one of the Jade Forest’s larger mountain-hills that jutted out in front of him, then straightened out to get back on his initial flight path.

Information about his devious little brother had not been all he’d learned, however. The last ingredient Sabellian needed was a binding agent, the final drop that would strengthen the multiple potions. In elixirs such as the one the elder dragon was making, it was the most important; the wasp poison and other elements he’d burned and boiled together were needed to make what the potion was – a sleeping potion rather than, say, an actual poison or something else entirely – but the binding was what made it weaker or stronger. The last sleeping draught he’d made had knocked out a gronn - the binding agent had been his own draconic flame. It had been very strong, but perhaps not strong enough to set an entire Alliance fort into slumber.

What he needed was something better.

One of the mortals had mentioned, offhandedly, about a Vale – something about the water. Sabellian had pressed them for information, curious, keeping in mind about the last ingredient, and had found that the reason the animals and crops he’d seen at the Valley of the Four Winds, which had looked absurd, was because of the water streaming from the cliff-face from somewhere called the Vale of Eternal Blossoms.

Clearly the water was enchanted. It was intriguing – and exactly what Sabellian needed.

If the water could make a simple crane in the Valley larger than a horse, if it could make the crops larger than houses, then what could it do to his sleeping draughts?

The elder dragon squinted. Through the hazy clouds he flew through, partially to hide himself from the unsuspecting mortals below, he could make out the green peaks merging together to form an actual mountain, tall and grey. As he flew closer, he noted a large waterfall cascading with a gentle roar down to the river below.

Sabellian snorted. It was the Veiled Stair.

He’d have to fly at it, then above the mountains, to get to the Vale.

The mists were hard to see through as he began to fly over – Sabellian was still flying high – but he could see the smoldering remains of the Tavern, the Auction House, the burned foliage, the overall devastation. He slowed his flight for a mere moment, as he bent his neck to look around at his handiwork. It made his mood even better than it was already in to see this for the third time.

Pleased even more with himself, the dragon finally tilted his wings again, and the wind carried him up and over the large mountains higher up. He passed over an interesting golden archway, easily spotted among the brown-gray of the rock, but had little time to think about it; he was already over the mountain tops.

The gloominess of the destroyed Veiled Stair fell away. Ahead of him, curling out in a white-gold sheen, was the Vale of Eternal Blossoms.

Sabellian had not really known what to expect from the Vale. He’d heard it was beautiful, a paradise, and all of that other nonsense, but as he flew above it, immediately turning and making his way to a massive architectural structure of gold and white, its multiple roofs curved, a large stairway rolling out towards a gazebo-like structure in the center of a small, shining lake, he concluded that – yes, it was rather beautiful, indeed. He idly compared it to the dustiness of Blade’s Edge - where his home had an unwelcoming sharpness, a barren quality to it, this Vale was lush with life. The gold of the grass, the trees’ leaves, seemed to shimmer. There was an ancient magic here; Sabellian could nearly feel it tugging at his chest, like a forgotten reminder.

He was nearly at the lake. The dragon turned his head, his orange eyes seeking signs of mortals close by – but there seemed to be none.

Nonetheless, Sabellian was cautious. He snapped his wings against his sides and dived hard at the gazebo, shifting to human form at the last possible second to land on the outer edge, one of his arms spread out to hold his balance so he wouldn’t fall into the water. Hopefully, anyone who had managed to see him emerge from the clouds would have only seen a blurred streak of black that had quickly disappeared, a mere smudge on their vision.

Sablemane looked around again, suspicious. No – no one was around. He was alone among the lake, save for the skittering water striders that sluiced across the surface of the water. It was certainly peaceful. But now that he was down at the water, the tug of ancientness he’d felt earlier had somehow… shifted. It, vaguely, felt unnerving.

He snorted at himself and brushed aside the tingles at the back of his neck.

The satchel with his potions had been strung around his neck as he’d shifted. Annoyed at the tight strap, he loosened it, moving it around so that it was slung across his side, before reaching in and grabbing a larger empty vial.

Sablemane eyed the water. It looked rather plain, he thought, other than its iridescence. He sighed loud through his nose, scowling. If this turned out to be a complete waste of time and he was putting regular water as a binding agent in his potions, they’d be weaker even this his regular draughts.

However, the lush life of this place couldn’t be denied,and nor could the oversized abundance of it in the Valley, either. There was something to this.

Sablemane filled the vial. The water glowed in its new glass container, and as the elder dragon straightened, corking the mouth, he eyed it with a certain sense of hungriness.

Waters like these – waters that gave such life – it was almost reminiscent of the Well of Eternity, the gift from the Titans. Such power…

Sablemane narrowed his eyes. He shook his head back and forth, frowning at himself.

He put the vial back in the satchel and snapped it closed. He had the waters. Good. Fine. The dragon was quick to shift back into his normal form. The sense of peace, he noted, had somehow… left him. He went to spread his wings, vaguely unnerved -

A low, faint grumbling shifted at the very edges of his mind. Sabellian was so startled he lurched forward, his wings flailing, and only managed to catch himself at the last moment from falling into the lake.

The grumble was a laugh. A very old, very faint, laugh.

A mere… toy…

The voice was as low as the laugh, as faint, but just as terrible – a whisper, a growling, the words sliding against one another like rocks -

Sabellian gripped hard to the edge of the gazebo. His chest rose and fell in short, near-gasping breaths, and his angled head whipped back and forth – with fear.

Incoherent, vague echoes bloomed in the back of his head. Sabellian whipped his tail around, nearly panicked, and part of the gazebo splashed into the lake.

He stood frozen for a moment – no, no, no, no, NO -

The dragon flushed open his wings in a frenzied movement and shot up into the sky, as quick as any firework.

Release… me…

The voice – the terrible voice – it was akin to the same that had reverberated from Talsian’s, before Sabellian snapped his neck.

Sabellian hardly remembered to flap his wings, he was so panicked. He dove then lurched back up again, tail swinging, his claws tight in balled fists.

He shot out of the Vale as quickly as he could, nearly colliding with one of the enormous mogu statues, and aimed towards the south. The whispers died as he left the paradise behind him.

—-

Anduin eased himself off of the back of the gryphon, his boots thumping against the wood floor of the stables.

Lion’s Landing was quiet… eerily so. They had met no resistance upon flying in – Anduin had at least expected the usual gryphon riders wheeling above, though there had been none – and settling into the stable had been easy. The towers outside in the military building were scorched and bruised, the marks where bombs and other magics had exploded against them more than evident, and the walls of the archway that opened up into the harbor were pocked and smoking, as well.

Though there were no bodies, Anduin had seen smears of red across the bright white sand, and had forced himself to look away before he upset himself further.

The skirmish was over, it seemed, and the Alliance had pushed back the Horde, if the quiet lack of activity was to be any indication. Anduin was glad that it was done with -… but worried over the death toll as he shifted Wrathion, in whelp form, into the crook of his arm so he could hold the dragon while at the same time use his cane.

“Wait – hold still.” He leaned his cane, then himself, against the wall behind him as Left led the tired gryphon into her enclosure.

Wrathion watched him, one red eye peering up. He’d slept the entire flight, and had only just woken up upon landing. Wrapped around his small form was Anduin’s blue and gold Alliance tabard; the prince of Stormwind had insisted on it before leaving the Veiled Stair after Wrathion’s intense shaking from his chill had returned once they’d taken the horse blanket off.

Anduin almost smiled thinking back on waking up. Wrathion had woken before him, but had positioned himself back in the corner, off of Anduin, trying to fool the blond that he’d stayed there the entire time.

The prince of Stormwind wanted to call him on it, but perhaps not when Wrathion was sick.

When he was better? Yes.

The blond readjusted the the tabard. He wanted to make sure that Wrathion’s black scales weren’t showing - they were stark against Anduin’s white tunic, the only thing the prince wore, now, besides his purple sash. He’d stashed his bloodied blue poncho in his satchel for cleaning.

“I’m covering your face,” Anduin murmured. He didn’t wait for an okay – he took a bit of the cloth and draped it over the whelp’s snout, then made sure to ruffle the folds there in the tabard to hide the obvious bumps from Wrathion’s horns. The Black Prince made an unhappy grumble, but otherwise stayed silent.

“Ready?” Anduin looked over. Left was watching him, impatient. The prince nodded.

Like the last time the trio had snuck into Lion’s Landing, Anduin led the way and Left followed, using the same path they’d used previously, aiming to climb back up the same stairs up to the third floor of the fort.

Like flying in, they met little resistance.

The quiet was truly unnerving now. The only sounds were the loud cries of the seagulls that wheeled above, the close crashing of the waves against the beach, and the creaking of the ships from the docks. Left didn’t even seem to have to use her Blacktalon tricks to keep them hidden as they entered the courtyard.

The battle must have taken a worse hit on Lion’s Landing than Anduin had initially thought.

There was a loud groan. Anduin glanced down at Wrathion instinctually. But it hadn’t been the dragon.

The prince frowned and looked around. It must have come from one of the rooms that the stone courtyard of the building led into.

Anduin stopped. Careful to keep himself hidden behind the wall, he peered his head just around the open archway and saw, his jaw locking, that the inside of the keep had been transformed into a second infirmary – white sheets had been hurriedly placed around the floor where Alliance soldiers were being treated as priests, shamans, druids, and other healers milled about.

Anduin had little time to think about it – Left pushed him forward towards the opposite end of the courtyard, towards the stairs they needed to climb. He shot her a glare. She motioned to Wrathion, then to Anduin, then raised her brows suggestively. Anduin ground his teeth and looked away; he understood the look.

It’s either them, or him.

The prince hesitated… then shook his head and started towards the stairs.

He couldn’t save everyone, as bitter a truth it was to swallow.

Besides, he tried telling himself – there were many healers in that room. One more wouldn’t make that much of a difference.

And Wrathion needed him more right now.

Left reached out and opened the door over Anduin’s shoulder and, quietly but quickly – or as quickly as they could with Anduin’s leg – they made their way up to the third level.

The orc opened the last door – but froze when she creaked it open.

Anduin glanced back at her, alarmed. “Wha -?”

She shoved him through the opening, then closed it behind him, staying in the stairwell.

Anduin stumbled, catching his balance. He whipped his head back over to the door with a glare, and was just about to open his mouth to make some angry retort when -

“Anduin Llane Wrynn.”

The prince stiffened. His feet became stuck to the ground.

Oh no. Anduin scrunched his eyes closed and grimaced.

Left shoving him out into the open to hide herself made sense, now.

He took a deep breath and was quick to compose himself, his face dropping the sense of alarm and becoming even and calm. He didn’t smile; smiling always gave him away to the person standing behind him, but that didn’t stop him from inwardly berating

Wrathion tensed a moment in his arm before going still again. The blond squeezed the dragon a bit closer to his chest, trying to make him stop moving, before slowly turning on his heel and facing the voice, straightening his back and rolling back his shoulders in the process.

King Varian Wrynn stood with his arms crossed, his dark eyes locked down on his son with a suspicious, critical look. His blue and gold armor was scuffed and in need of cleaning, and Anduin found himself wondering why that was – what had happened in Ironforge? - before his thoughts focused back on how much trouble he was about to be in.

“Hello, Father,” Anduin said with the utmost politeness. He paused – perhaps he was putting it on too thick. He tried to sound more casual. “I’m glad you’re alright. What happened in Iron -?”

The king dropped his arms, took only two strides forward, then grabbed Anduin’s shoulders with his hands. Anduin went shock-still as his father leaned down and squinted at him, his eyes looking his son up and down; the prince said nothing, only bit the inside of his cheek, as the King looked him over for any signs of injury. The king’s eyes locked on the mottled bruise at Anduin’s throat.

“Father, I’m fine.”

Varian let go with an unsatisfied huff. His eyes lingered on the bruise for another moment before they flicked back up to Anduin. The prince was relieved he didn’t seem to question the bundle in his arms – yet.

“Where were you?”

He did not sound happy. Varian gestured to the destroyed hallway. “And care to explain what happened while I was gone, son?” His tone was serious and scolding. “I came home to a skirmish only just won, you gone, a trail of destruction across this floor, and some champions claiming they’d seen an orc stealing you on a gryphon. I was just about to send them to find you!” The King took a deep breath as he struggled to control his temper. “I thought the Horde may be using you as leverage.”

Anduin’s words died in his throat. He closed his mouth. He’d expected to lie to his guards, try to convince them that he indeed had not been kidnapped by an orc, that he’d only be out to visit the Black Prince again, but now that he’d found himself in the worst possible situation – his father back and catching him – all of the excuses Anduin had come up with began to shrivel. Anduin knew that his father was aware of when his son was lying.

He shifted his weight once. Maybe Varian was quick to pick up on a lie, but Anduin could still try to tell one - the prince wasn’t about to spill the whole story about Sabellian, Wrathion, and the Sha to his father. He’d never be able to leave his room again if he did.

“I was visiting the Black Prince,” Anduin said. It wasn’t… exactly a lie. The first time he’d snuck out, however many days ago, was to see Wrathion before he’d found the Veiled Stair in disarray. The second time he’d snuck out was to see Wrathion -… or, rather, find Wrathion. But he knew the comment didn’t cover what had happened with scorch marks and holes in the hallway.

Varian stared at him. His mouth was skewered back in an unhappy frown, an expression that was no stranger to the King’s scarred face.

“Anduin.”

“Father.”

The King gave him a hard look. “I’ve told you before that you can only visit the dragon if you were with your guards.” His voice was scolding, but Anduin stared at him evenly. “This is the fourth time you’ve gone on your own -”

“Father, my guards are scared of him. They’re too restricting -”

“Your guards are there to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting from Wrathion.”

“You need protecting from other threats – like whatever happened here,” Varian retorted. He ran a hand over his face, then pinched the bridge of his nose with a low grumble before letting his hand fall back to his crossed arms. “You know my stance on the black dragon.”

Yes, Anduin knew too well. Varian was more than wary of his son visiting a dragon – especially a black dragon, considering the Wrynn’s history with the Flight. When the King of Stormwind had ordered the prince to stay in the Vale, away from the dangers of warfare at Lion’s Landing, and away from other dangers like the Black Prince, Anduin had immediately disobeyed his father and had gone to meet Wrathion however long ago it was, two of his guards trailing behind him.

After that, Varian seemed to realize that at Lion’s Landing, he could do nothing himself to stop the rebellious prince from doing what he wanted – so he agreed that fine, yes, Anduin could go again if he wished… but only with the guards, and only if he came to Lion’s Landing so the King could keep an eye on his son, skirmishes-be-damned.

That did not quite stop Anduin from sneaking away from said-guards to go the Veiled Stair on his own - as Varian had pointed out.

The King paused, then looked at Anduin with a suspicious gleam. “Did he do this?”

Oh – the scorch marks. Anduin paused – long enough for Varian to think of his hesitation as a ‘yes.’ The King bristled, his stance straightening.

“If he laid one hand one you -” He looked at Anduin’s neck and scowled. “If that was from him -”

“Father, I’m fine. It wasn’t Wrathion.” The lie was quick and easy. His father narrowed his eyes, but Anduin didn’t waver. “I don’t know what happened up here. I’m sure one of the Horde may have gotten inside, or something must have smashed through the glass. The skirmish was very -”

Varian put up a hand. He was looking at Anduin with the usual expression he used when he knew his son was lying – his brows sloped down, his eyes lidded. Anduin sighed and stopped talking. If those champions hadn’t seen him, this lie would have been much easier.

“You left Lion’s Landing twice, I’m told. Once before the skirmish, and one during, in the span of a handful of days.” Varian shook his head. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing, Anduin, but I’m hoping you’ll give me answers soon. Truthful answers.” The king dropped his arms from their stern cross against his chest and sighed. “I’m just glad you’re alright – somewhat.” Again his eyes found the bruise. “I was about to go to a meeting with Troteman and discuss our losses after I sent champions after you – but I don’t need to do that now. So, son.” He fixed Anduin with a look. “Think carefully about what you’re going to say to me when I come back.”

“Of course, Father.”

Anduin tried to keep the breathy relief from his voice, and partially succeeded. He began to relax; he had perhaps an hour or two to situate Wrathion and think of a good story while Varian was -

“And what’s that in your arm?”

Anduin hesitated. His relief fled. “… My tabard.”

Varian raised a brow at him. “Why aren’t you wearing it?”

“It was hot.”

“Anduin, Krasarang is only a little worse than Stormwind in terms of weather.” The king’s stern parenting voice had been replaced by something akin to humor.

Anduin shrugged weakly. Wrathion was cold against his chest. “It’s humid, too.”

Varian was staring at the tabard now, and Anduin shifted his body sideways to try and make him look away-… realizing only at the last moment he’d made a very bad mistake in doing so as the king’s eyes narrowed.

Anduin had given away that he was hiding something.

Before Anduin had time to block him, Varian snatched the tabard and pulled it back from Wrathion’s face. The whelp groaned, eyes scrunching from the light, and quivered.

Anduin held his breath. Varian stared hard at Wrathion for a long, tense moment, before he dropped the cloth from his hand, where it pooled down across Anduin’s forearm.

“Explain. Now.”

Anduin took a quick, deep breath. This had gotten bad fast; there was a absolutely no option for lying his way out of this anymore.

“Wrathion was hurt,” Anduin started quickly. “He was attacked by an enemy of his.” Varian watched the prince intently, with a vague frown. “When I went to visit him – the first time I left – I found him like this.”

Anduin warped and simplified the story with ease, conveniently omitting Sabellian, the destruction of the Tavern, the cave rescue in Kun-lai; it was the truth, but not a complete truth.

He did not want his father to worry more than he should, and he did not want to give away the secrets he was keeping, either.

Varian said nothing, only gave his son a look that prodded the prince to continue.

“I couldn’t leave him. He needed healing -”

“And you brought him back to Lion’s Landing,” Varian interrupted. He fixed his son with a warning eye. “I allowed you to visit the Black Prince, but I never said you could bring him home like some sort of injured kitten.”

Wrathion shifted around once at that,too weak to retort, but Anduin strengthened his hold on the dragon to keep him from squirming. He didn’t take his eyes off of his father’s.

“Yes, I brought him back. As I told you, he needed healing, and I wasn’t going to abandon him.” Anduin was almost glowering at Varian. “I know you’re distrustful of him, but that’s no excuse to assume I would leave him, my friend, when he needed me.”

Anduin was glowering now. Varian glowered back.

The two stared at each other for a time. Anduin could hear his own hurried heart beating.

Finally, Varian broke eye contact. Anduin relaxed his shoulders. The king glanced at the dragon again, scowling slightly, before looking back up at Anduin.

“Then he is involved with whatever happened here,” Varian said after another moment of silence.

Anduin said nothing. The second part of the story was much harder to lie about.

Oh, yes, Father, Wrathion was corrupted by the Sha and tried to toss me out of a window before nearly succeeded in flinging me off of a balcony.

Varian sighed in aggravation when Anduin didn’t answer him.

“You can answer that question when I come back from Troteman. I don’t want the dragon in here, Anduin. He’s a liability the Alliance doesn’t need right now – or that you need right now.”

“I’m sorry, Father, but he’ll be staying.”

Varian’s glower returned. “Anduin -”

“I’ve healed his wounds, but he’s still sick.” The prince softened. “I won’t let him leave my room, and he can hardly move. Please, just let me heal him – then he can leave.”

Varian squinted at him. Again the king looked at Wrathion before turning his eyes to his son.

“… Alright.” He put up a hand as Anduin’s face lit up with a smile. “Don’t look too happy - I’ll be stationing new guards up here to make sure you don’t make more trouble. And you won’t be leaving your room.”

Anduin nodded, hardly taking in what he was hearing.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Mm.” The king put his right hand on the ornate hilt of Shalamayne, where it hung at his side. “If that dragon stirs trouble, or puts you into more risk, I won’t hesitate to react accordingly. Are we clear?”

Anduin nodded again. The prince eyed his father; he recalled, then, that Varian hadn’t told him about Ironforge.

“What happened at Ironforge?” Anduin asked, not caring at the suspicious change of subject. He honestly did want to know what had transpired… and taking any more focus off of the whelp in his arm was good, too.

“I suppose you’ll find out when I found out what happened to you.”

Varian smiled at him cheekily. Anduin sighed, aggravated, through his nose.

“Fair enough,” the prince grumbled.

“Good. Go to your room. I’ll be coming by after my briefing to ask about your.. adventures you’ve gotten yourself in.” The king paused. His stern face softened, as Anduin’s had a moment ago. “Do you need help getting to your -?”

“No, Father, I’m fine,” Anduin grumbled. “I can manage a couple of steps, I think.”

Varian nodded. The king hesitated, as if unsure of what to do now that his scolding was over.

“I’ll be back. And rest your leg,” Varian added, before walked passed his son and heading to the stairs.

Anduin closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief when Varian had gone.

That could have gone a lot worse.

He smiled and opened his eyes. At least he’d managed to convince his father to let Wrathion stay. The guards the king had promised were hardly important. It wasn’t as if Anduin was going to leave the room, anyway.

And now he didn’t have to worry about hiding Wrathion from his father… though admittedly, Anduin still had to think about a good story for what had happened to the hallway, and why he’d left Lion’s Landing a second time.

“Very charming,” Wrathion managed to grumble, hardly understandable. Anduin sighed, shook his head, then made his way to his room, eager to be alone. He assumed Left would follow him; she’d probably heard the entire conversation.

He opened the door with his elbow – his hands were full – and went inside.

Someone had cleaned up the shards of glass from the floor and set a curtain against the empty window. The room smelled like the sea, sharp and warm.

“Welcome back,” Anduin said. Wrathion said nothing; maybe the singular comment about Varian had sapped his energy. The prince placed the dragon on the bed.

The Black Prince curled a bit more into the tabard, which was still around him, and his horned head lolled out against the blankets. He didn’t shift. Anduin didn’t mind; there were no wounds for him to look at.

Anduin thought to himself as he sat on the edge of the bed, a strange sense of deja vu overcoming him. It’d been more than half a day since the SI:7 had left… they were probably at the Temple by this point, now, if everything was going well.

Oh – he hadn’t told Left or Wrathion about the dragon that might be joining them. Anduin shook his head to himself. He’d bring it up later.

The prince watched Wrathion shiver, then reached out and adjusted the actual blankets of the bed so more of the bundling was around him.

He could do nothing else. It felt odd to just… sit there. Anduin shifted his weight. Well, perhaps he could recast Wrathion’s arm; the sha had ate away at the gauze, though thankfully the bone hadn’t cracked again.

Maybe he’d do that later, though, when Wrathion wasn’t asleep.

He hoped the SI:7 would be back soon.

—-

Amber Kearnen watched the cloud serpent hatchlings nudge small rubber balls to their waiting trainers as she stood, arms crossed, in the courtyard of the Temple of the Jade Serpent.

The main building of the temple rose up in front of her. Its greens and reds were bright and pleasing to the eye in the afternoon sun, its curled, elegant architecture artful and noble. Two large jade stone serpents, large speckled orbs in their paws, flanked the side of the temple’s doors, and flanking the colonnades of the courtyard were teal-green banners emblazoned with a golden cloud serpent; they twisted lazily in the gentle breeze, and the warmth of the air was, thankfully, not stifling for Amber’s leather SI:7 uniform.

It was altogether a peaceful but lively place; cloud serpent trainers milled about to and fro, followed by their chosen hatchlings or other students.

Sully trotted up next to the sniper. He seemed unaffected by the heat, as all dwarves were.

The dwarf saw where Amber was looking. “Aww. They’re cute, eh?”

Amber huffed and looked away, resuming her previous brief look-around of the temple. “I guess.”

“Jus’ don’t shoot ‘em like ye’ did Gizmo. I don’t trust ye’ with wee little animals anymore.”

Amber rolled her eyes. “Sully, I told you before – I didn’t shoot your raccoon.”

“Well, I don’t see who else coulda’ -”

Amber gave the mechanic a scalding look. Sully put his hands up defensively, but said no more.

The sniper shook her head, then looked away to glance over the Temple again. It was an ornate area – the entire Temple of the Jade Serpent was not just the main temple that stood proudly in front of them, its large carved doors closed. It was more like a walled-in community. There were other buildings and tucked-away places in this large place, such as the library, and winding, open-ceiling hallways and ramps led to different areas of the Temple. Amber spotted one of the ramps that could just be made out behind some of the playing hatchlings.

Though the two SI:7 agents had made it here quickly, finding the dragon Prince Anduin had asked for was another task altogether – and while Amber wanted to get away from Krasarang Wilds as long as she could, this mission was not something she could delay and make the most time out of. The look of desperation that she’d seen in Prince Anduin’s eyes had been enough for the sniper to realize that this was urgent.

Besides – Amber took her job and duty seriously. She wasn’t about to slack off because she was beginning to hate staying at the beach.

“Alright. Let’s hope that his dragon’s here.” She eyed the winding ramp. “We’ll go up there, first, then work our way around and ask the pandaren if they’ve seen anything.”

While the SI:7 was usually more … subtle about gathering information, Sully and Amber had decided to be a bit more upfront when asking around for the dragon. They had little time to waste, and being sneaky was something that made everything go slower – though they weren’t going to simply tell those they asked why they were looking for the dragon, of course. That was classified.

Amber enjoyed the change of pace.

“Aye. ”Cuse me miss, have ye’ seen a large, fire-breahtin’ reptile’?”

“Funny, Sully.”

The dwarf chuckled. Amber readjusted the green scope across her eye, then started towards the ramp, her gun shifting at her back with every step. Maybe they would have luck in the library – dragons liked knowledge, didn’t they?

Some of the Pandaren serpent riders gave the duo curious glances, but otherwise ignored the foreigners. The SI:7 agents did the same to them.

They were beginning their walk up the ramp when Sully clucked his tongue. Amber glanced at him.

“Looks like we have a follower.”

Amber glanced behind her shoulder. A young pandaren child was behind them, her hair bound in two blue bonnets and her hands behind her back. A white flower was perched behind her ears. She smiled at Amber when the agent saw her.

“Hello!” The child said. Her eyes were pink. Amber raised a brow at her.

“Hey, kid,” the sniper replied. She stopped walking. “Need something?”

The small pandaren smiled again.

“You look very serious. I was going to ask if you needed anything.” The girl’s voice was bright and cheery, but something in her eyes was a tad bit mischievous.

Amber glanced at Sully, who shrugged, then at the pandaren. “Yeah. We’re looking for someone.”

The child tilted her head. “Oh! Who? I know a lot of people here.”

“A female dragon. Not the cloud serpents – I mean a dragon from where we’re from.”

The pandaren was looking at Amber curiously, now. The agent sighed.

“You probably don’t know what I’m talking about. They’re usually pretty big, but they can look like us – like mortals.”

“I know,” the pandaren said. There was that mischievous spark in her eye again. Amber raised a brow at her. “I think I can help you.”

“’You think?’ So the dragon’s here?”

The pandaren said nothing. She studied Amber for a moment, her smile gone but her face still kind, and, strangely, the SI:7 agent felt like something had shifted in the child’s eyes. She looked closer, and saw in the inner iris a band of bright green, where there had only been pink before.

Finally, the child smiled again, and the green evaporated into pink. “Come on. I can show you.”

She walked passed Amber and Sully with a near skip to her step. The dwarf and human looked at each other before following.

The child led them up the ramp and into the library. It was a large room with two separate floors, and they found themselves on the second level. Shelves upon shelves of books, all of different colors, all of different bindings, lined the walls. Stacks of rolled parchment were placed reverently in other pyramidal piles, and tall ladders stretched up high to get to the tallest peak of the shelves, higher even than the level the three stood now. It smelled of dark wood and musty book pages; the scent reminded Amber of the Stormwind library.

The pandaren glanced back to make sure the two were following, then walked down the stairs to the lower level.

An older pandaren male was standing at a slim table, overlooking a scroll. He looked up, saw the child, then nodded his head at her with a strange sort of reverence that Amber found odd. The child smiled and waved at him before leading the agents to another section of the library partially hidden by the bookshelves. Amber and Sully followed. The sniper wondered if this little kid was just messing around with them, and frowned in annoyance.

The fleeting idea fell away when Amber looked ahead.

There, sitting comfortably on a large wooden chair at the corner of the small steal-away, was a tall woman, her head gently bent over a large tomb sprawled out in front of her with ancient, near-see through, pages. Her hair was a bright crimson, which fell in a gentle curve down to her shoulders and held back from her face by a metal headband encrusted with three purple stones. Small bangs drifted down to end right above her long, thin, elf-like eyebrows. She wore a carmine silk robe embroidered with golden cloud serpents that curved close to her lithe body, gently accenting her curves, and its sleeves were pulled up to her forearms to reveal metal gauntlets of gold and pinkish red, similar in color to her skin.

The woman looked up as the three approached. She smiled at the pandaren, then cast her orange-red eyes over at Amber and Sully.

“I’ve brought some friends,” the child said.

Amber straightened – this was the dragon.

“So you have,” the dragon said. She studied the two agents intently.

The pandaren looked at Amber and Sully. “I’m gonna’ leave now. I know you’re nice – I’ve seen it in you – but please stay that way, okay?”

I’ve seen it in you. Amber gave the child a strange look and recalled the green of her eyes.

The pandaren tilted her head at her.

“Of course,” Amber responded. Something made her bow her head slightly to the child, as the older pandaren had done, before she looked back at the red dragon.

The dragon and the pandaren shared a quiet look before the child walked off, leaving them alone.

“How may I aid you, mortals?” The dragon smiled slowly. Her voice was pleasant but strong, and somewhat authoritative.

“Hiya, miss,” Sully said, grinning politely. “Hopefully yer’ not too busy ta’ help us lil’ mortals. We got a problem with a sickness.”

The dragon tilted her head. Her very movements were slow, gentle. She looked at Sully and smiled again.

“I would be glad to help you, young ones. Please – tell me about this sickness. I have much time to spare.”


	10. Chapter 10

The Badlands was rather plain to look at.

Nasandria looked down on the dusty, clay-colored landscape as she crossed the red mountain range that separated the Searing Gorge and this unhappy valley.

The Badlands stretched in craggy bumps before her, carved out with small hills and barren peaks. Up ahead, she could make out a large hill, which nestled atop it some sort of ruined iron building, whose great roof spokes jutted out like a claw trying to snatch onto the sky. Other ruined buildings were half-hidden among that hill, tilted, abandoned, and hard to make out against the hot glare of the mid-afternoon sun.

Even further, if she squinted, Nasandria could just make out amongst the dusty haze larger mountains that jut out at a hard vertical from the leveled plains, though, oddly, they were flat, as if some giant had cleaved away their pointed tops, leaving behind black scorch marks like some sort of cauterized limb, red and smoking.

She sighed. Despite the ruins, despite the odd mountains, the Badlands seemed altogether a pathetic place when compared to the lively grandeur she’d seen in the Gorge, whose intense reds and blacks and greys had engulfed her entire vision. The Gorge was full of liveliness, with its rush of fire and earth that bubbled and drooled from the mountains and the molten rivers of lava. The faraway, flat scorched mountains of the Badlands, as well as its dusty silence, punctured only by the faraway lonely caws of buzzards flying below, was no substitute.

Nasandria beat her wings against the hot afternoon sun, whose heat would have been uncomfortable to most, but not to the black drake. It was a welcome change from the crisp, near-chilly ocean breeze she’d endured for the majority of her week-long flight, and the sun felt nice in its warmth against her scales.

Though the long flight had been unkind in climate, it had been relatively easy, if not tiring. Once leaving the Jade Forest, Nasandria had cut up north, using the same tactic the party had used when coming up from the Black Portal by skipping out across the Great Sea to avoid unwanted eyes, and had entered the Eastern Kingdoms by way of the Searing Gorge.

Catching fish on the forgotten dots of islands in the Sea had not gone well; the basilisk she’d caught and devoured at the Gorge, whose meat ought to have tasted too tough to her on normal circumstances, had been the tenderest flesh in her jaws.

Nasandria tilted her wings slightly, aiming for the tall rocks to her right, and rolled her shoulders back, the leather bag around her neck swinging with the gentle movement; it contained the robotic whelp Sabellian had found again amongst the wreckage of the Veiled Stair.

The black drake wondered how her father was doing. He’d briefly and impatiently said something about “sleeping potions” before hurrying her away; she supposed he would have contacted her if he’d managed to snatch the little Black Prince again.

It’d been an entire week – was he really taking that long?

Nasandria sighed. Sabellian was a skilled alchemist… though maybe these sleeping potions, whatever he hoped to do with them, were a lengthy process.

At least she hoped.

Not like she was happy with him for sending her away from the action of Pandaria to travel by herself to this lifeless, boring place just because Wrathion had happened to whimper something about the Badlands and the Titan technology the Reds found there.

Nasandria landed on one of the peaks, folding in her wings at her sides. Her muscles ached, and the salt of the ocean air was still stuck to her forelegs, stinging. Behind her was a long, natural valley that connected Searing Gorge and the Badlands; she glanced down, suspicious, looking for mortals - … though she saw none. She didn’t expect to. She hadn’t seen any in the Gorge, and what mortal in their right mind would want to stay in this barren, quiet, lonely place?

Nasandria turned her head from the path and scanned the landscape with a small glare. At least, she thought, she was finally here. The ocean was no place for any dragon. The drake scratched at her itching forelegs. The buzzards cawed and circled below near the ruins of the buildings near the hills.

She was here, certainly – but where to start? Her task was so vague in direction, but so dire in need: search for whatever had purified the Black Prince.

How was she supposed to do that?

Nasandria watched the buzzards circle below. She had only been a whelp during her first stay at Azeroth, before Sabellian and his brood relocated to Blade’s Edge Mountains. The drake did not know this planet, and did not know the Badlands; how large was it? How far, how deep, would she have to search? The Black Prince was only two years old – but two years was a long time to have left whatever created him out in the open.

Would she find anything at all? Nasandria clicked her claws against the rock.

“A tour of the Eastern Kingdoms,” she mumbled, grunting, recalling her father’s words at that exact worry. “Consisting of a grand total of two lands and a large, cold sea.”

Her wings spread, the red webbing growing warmer as they caught the sun. She closed her eyes and simply enjoyed the heat, allowing it to relax her taut, tired muscles, and allowing it to relax her frustrated, tired mind, too.

Nasandria’s thoughts wandered. This might end up being a useless venture, but if she did find something, find anything, about how the Reds cured the Black Prince of his corruption – if it could help the rest of the brood in Blade’s Edge -

The wailing screams of Talsian echoed between her skull. Her eyes scrunched tighter. She had never seen the crazed bloodlust that haunted her family’s heritage until that day in the cave, when her younger brother had been released from his chains and had descended on her with a frenzied flurry of tooth and claw.

Sabellian didn’t speak of the corruption often, and none of the others liked to bring it up, either. It was a thing best left forgotten – not like many remembered it at all, having been too young, like Nasandria, to completely recall the whispers.

Though if she thought hard enough, the drake could still hear them… a scratch on the back of her brain, pulling, tightening…

Nasandria shook her head hard and opened her eyes. She forced herself to forget the memory again.

She would not end up like her brother. He’d been weak from the injuries that human guard had given him; Nasandria would not allow herself to be injured. She’d be cautious.

Nasandria looked over the Badlands again, her initial frustration gone. No – if there was something here that could help her family, then she would find it. They should not have to live in fear that something under the earth could seep through and find them when on Azeroth. They should not have to fear of becoming mindless beasts like all of their brothers and sisters who had not been lucky enough to journey to Blade’s Edge and had endured the insanity, and who had been destroyed, put down like the rabid animals they were, in the end.

Like Talsian had. The clack of his horns against the stone floor reverberated between her skull, hollow. Her wings folded again, close to her body.

He couldn’t be helped.

She scowled. It was unfair, she thought. They were cursed because of the actions of her dead grandfather, one she had only seen once, another memory she’d tried to forget, just as she had tried to forget the whispers that had plagued her as a hatchling.

One individual had destroyed the lives of thousands, and even after his death, his mistakes followed his children that still lived.

Well, Nasandria thought, perhaps she could help reverse that mistake. The drake snorted, smoke curling from her nostrils. She would find the cure even though the little Black Prince didn’t want them as pure as he was.

Nasandria jumped from the edge again. Wrathion confused her. She tilted her wings a bit to the left, aiming for the ruined town amongst the bumpy hills; doing a quick reconnaissance fly-over of the Badlands first seemed most appropriate, to get a lay of the land, before the drake could delve further.

Why did the hatchling hate them so much? Why had he resisted, even during torture, from telling them how he’d been cured of their father’s madness, a madness that lurked in all of their souls, hidden and waiting like a snake ready to bite? What hate did he have to spurn them, to kill them?

Nasandria curled her paws close to her body and glared. He had started this. She’d enjoyed cutting him, watching him bleed and cry out.

She was near the ruins now; the remains of red wooden huts lay crumpled amongst the tossed stone ground, decayed. A singular, catcus-like tree and other small, starved bushes struggled to grow on the slope. The buzzards she’d heard and seen before were directly below her, and she glanced down at them again.

Nasandria squinted. Dotted amongst the red-tan rocks were grey forms, thin and angular and small. She frowned and swerved closer –

And noticed the large skeleton sprawled out amongst the rocks that had been half-hidden at her previous angle.

The drake faltered in surprise. It was not the skeleton of some random beast. It was a dragon’s skeleton.

Nasandria stared at it, hovering in the air, her wings beating hard. She looked around again at the smaller grey forms she’d seen – and realized they, too, were skeletons – hatchling skeletons.

What was this place?

She hovered closer, hesitant, then landed a bit below the struggling tree. The larger skeleton was sprawled in front of her.

Nasandria looked away. Her throat tightened as she glanced over the uncountable, tiny bones that surrounded her in clumps. Many had been ripped apart, no doubt by the buzzards that circled above the dragon, now, watching her cautiously. There was one small skull there, bodiless; another without wings or a tail; a ribcage embedded in the rock was only what remained of one hatchling.

So many hatchlings dead. So many – Nasandria closed her eyes. She was reminded of the hatchlings that remained on Blade’s Edge, her own brothers and sisters. She felt sick, a coldness seeping into her chest.

These could be nothing but black dragons. No other Flight bred and lived in such heat – and hadn’t the Black Prince said something about his mother, here?

Nasandria glanced back that the larger skeleton in front of her. It was picked clean, but in poor condition. Its bones were darkened from the scorch of the sun and scarred from the bite marks of the more desperate scavengers late to the feast of flesh, and stretched almost lazily against the rock were the remains of the wings; some of the parts that had once held together the leather-like webbing had fallen away or had been snatched by braver and larger foragers. One foreleg jutted out in a strict flex, as if in eternal pain, while the other claws curled inward towards the empty body.

The serpentine neck stretched forward, curled against the rock. Nasandria’s eyes traveled up to the skull, and the coldness in her chest strengthened. The skeleton’s mouth was open, its aged teeth agleam, and its empty, lifeless sockets gazed off into nothingness, unseeing.

Nasandria swallowed, the edges of her mouth tightening. Sabellian had always taught her to respect the fallen, that the burning of their flesh from the fire released them, that their remaining bones should be hidden away, as Ryxia’s and Talsian’s had in their caves; seeing a sad carcass laid out like some… beast was uncomfortable to look at.

She noted how the skeleton was only a bit larger than Nasandria herself, then; while the long, matured horns and thickly-built body were evidence of a grown dragon, it was still small in size, indicating a young dragon who had not been fully grown for very long.

Nasandria looked around at the hatchlings again. Those had probably been this dragon’s hatchlings; even newly-matured dragons could breed, and being surrounded by the smaller white bodies was evidence as much.

The drake shifted her weight, still disturbed. Was there a possibility this dragon was the Black Prince’s mother? Who else could it have been? Wrathion had said something about his mother being here, about the Red dragons, and about experiments.

Nasandria eyed the empty skull quietly. Gently, she bent her head, her snout brushing the ground, in respect, as she had done in the Kun-lai cave. The dragon may have been insane, as all of Nasandria’s kin on Azeroth were, but the treatment of her corpse was disgraceful – as was the treatment of her babies’, left to rot and be picked apart by birds and wolves and worms.

She straightened from her bow, though still felt ill. Her throat had gone cold and tight. Perhaps she could contact her father, now.

Sitting, her eyes not leaving the skeleton before her – it was as if she could not look away, though it disturbed her - Nasandria unlatched the bag from her neck and looped it off, careful not to let it fall on the hard ground, then dug the whelp out. The automaton caught the shine of the sun and like the iron spikes of the higher ruins glared so brightly that it nearly blurred out the robot’s dent and bumps that were scattered along its otherwise smooth surface; they were sustained from being inside the Tavern as it had collapsed, though still seemed functional. Sabellian, of course, had taken the nicer one for himself; the drake rolled her eyes as she held the whelp in one paw and searched for the communication button with the other. Her father was always like that. Protective he might be, but he always expected to be given the best, including the choicest cuts of meat from a kill.

The drake found the button and pushed it with a claw. The automaton’s mouth shuddered, then opened with a creak. Electrical smoke puffed from its throat; a spark popped from its hinged neck. For one terrible moment Nasandria thought it may be broken -… but then it began to emit the sound of harsh static. The drake relaxed; it was communicating.

Nasandria waited for an answer. She was staring at the whelp intently, not allowing herself to look back up at the skeletons around her. The cold had begun to tighten more in her throat, and there was a near to dull ringing in the back of her head. It was so quiet. She could hardly hear the buzzards anymore. She could see, just from the top of her eyes, the large skull staring at her, lifeless -

“What?”

Nasandria jumped as Sabellian’s voice crackled from the whelp’s maw, slightly distorted. A buzzard that had circled too close shot back up in the air with an annoyed squawk at the drake’s sudden movement. She glared at it before looking back at the whelp.

“Father?”

“Who else would it be, exactly?”

Nasandria directed her glare at the whelp and not the scavenger-bird. “I was just making sure.”

“Yes, yes, alright. Now, what do you want? I’m a bit preoccupied, here.”

There was a faint bubbling underneath Sabellian’s words. Nasandria tilted her head, wondering if it was from the static, before realizing it sounded like something akin to his alchemist’s table at Blade’s Edge.

“I’ve arrived at the Badlands,” she said, flicking her eyes up at the staring skull before looking back down quickly.

“Have you? Good. Not the liveliest place, still, I assume, from what I remember of it. Though the Barrens used to be like that, too, and my dear father had the nerve to upheave half of it into lush jungle.” Sabellian sighed loudly.

“You’ve been here?”

“The Badlands? Oh, yes. The Badlands was an easy flight over to Blackrock Mountain. Nefarian on more than one occasion insisted on touting off his… ‘secret laboratory’ that was Blackwing Descent to me at the Searing Gorge. Dreadful place. Don’t go there.”

“Oh.”

Sabellian paused. “Well? Anything else, or is that all?”

Nasandria shifted her weight. Small rocks rolled away from her back legs and tail and rolled down the sides of the small bumps. She looked back up at the dragon’s skeleton.

“I only just entered the Badlands through the Gorge. There’s some sort of ruined town near the valley. I thought it might take a long time to find something about the Black Prince, but -”

“What? What’d you find?”

His voice was insistent and louder.

“There’s – there’s hatchling skeletons everywhere. And one small dragon’s. They can’t be anything else but Black dragons, can they?” Nasandria asked, an edge of something almost like hope to her voice, hoping what she thought wasn’t true, when she knew it was.

Sabellian didn’t answer immediately, but when he did, his voice was gruff. “They’re probably relatives, I assume. Don’t fret too much. They weren’t like us.”

Nasandria frowned. Weren’t like us.

They had been corrupt, he meant.

“But there’s so many hatchl -”

“Ignore it. There’s nothing you can do for them. Better they’re dead than monsters.”

Sabellian sounded less gruff now. Father and daughter were silent for a moment, understanding, before Nasandria sighed and broken the quiet.

“The mature dragon may have been the mother of all of these children. She was hardly older than I was.”

“Mm.”

“… Don’t you think it could be the Black Prince’s mother?”

“Possibly.” A pause. “He did whimper something about his mother in the Badlands, didn’t he? I suppose I don’t see who else it could be. Unfortunate. At least it’s a start, unless she’s clutching the key to her little son’s success in her claws,” he added, with a small bit of bitter sarcasm.

“Well, keep looking, then. Keep updating me. I’m nearly finished with these potions, and if all goes well, I will have the Black Prince again in only days. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Of course,” Nasandria managed to say before the static cut off as Sabellian stopped the transmission. The drake grumbled and slipped the whelp back in the bag, then looped it over her neck again.

At least, she though, her father would have Wrathion again soon.

Nasandria looked around at the graveyard again; she had better begin searching. Even if this was the Black Prince’s mother, there was no evidence to look for in an empty, scarred pile of bones.

The drake opened her wings and, careful not to flap them too hard so that the air would not jostle the smaller bones from their final resting places, she took off, scaring off the birds. Bitter, she slapped one out of the air with her clubbed tail before whirling around to the west, ready to encircle the Badlands for the quick reconnaissance she’d planned.

Nasandria wondered if the broodmother below had had any idea about her strange little hatchling; the drake snorted. Doubtful. Even then, Sabellian had said they were monsters – and monsters did not feel.

Though even as she left the field of death behind her, the feeling of discomfort and anxiousness did not leave her, and her throat only became colder as she tried to forget, as she had the death of Talsian, all of the bones of the monsters that were at one time her own kin.

—-

“You need to stop moving around, Wrathion.”

“You are hurting me. I’ll move as I please.”

Anduin looked up from the cast to glare at the Black Prince, the gauze held tight in one hand. Wrathion eyed him, brows tilted in annoyance, as the dragon shifted again in the huge mound of blankets Anduin had reassigned around him. The only part of Wrathion that showed was his face and his right arm and shoulder, though half of his face was shadowed over by a thick blanket that laid haphazardly over his head.

He looked ridiculous, but Anduin wasn’t about to make fun of him when he was sick, even if he was tempted to by the bratty way Wrathion was acting.

“If you move, it’s just going to make it harder for me to recast it,” Anduin explained, slowly, trying to keep his own annoyance out of his voice.

Wrathion grumbled and looked away, sinking his head back into the pillows. The blanket near his head flopped down on the side of his face; the dragon blew at it in frustration, too weak to move either of his arms to take the blanket off, though it didn’t budge. Anduin pretended not to notice and left the blanket there.

Shaking his head, the prince went back to re-casting Wrathion’s right arm again, careful not to move around the broken forearm too much. The bruised flesh had healed somewhat, and Anduin was thankful that it hadn’t cracked again during Wrathion’s… episode.

It’d been a day since they had arrived back at Lion’s Landing for the second time. True to this word, Varian had come back around after the meeting and had demanded to know what had happened up on the floor-… though by that point, Anduin and Left had already come up with a good lie to tell him. The prince had explained, vaguely, how an enemy of the Black Prince’s had infiltrated the upper floor and had grabbed the dragon; it explained the scorch marks, and why Anduin had gone looking for Wrathion.

Varian still hadn’t seemed convinced, but was apparently too busy to argue further. The battle at Lion’s Landing had taken a heavy toll on both sides, and Horde and Alliance alike were licking their wounds while they glared at each other across the beach.

At least Varian was leaving them alone, Anduin thought, as he continued to remake the cast into something more stable… though the king hadn’t forgotten his promise of the surplus of guards. Two now flanked the closed door now, and four more near the stairs; two up top, two down below. They were not the kind sort. Anduin had tried to flash them his most charming, innocent smile when he wanted to leave to grab food for the Black Prince and Left, but the guards hadn’t budged, and had nearly slammed the door in his face after his request.

Anduin was not getting out of the room anytime soon. Not like he really needed to, when he had Wrathion to take care of.

At least the Black Prince had gotten better. When the Sha had left him, he’d spent most of that day they’d arrived at Lion’s Landing sleeping – recuperating - before he’d shifted into human form in much better spirits. He was still cold and sick and weak, but stronger than he had been in the past week. He could talk, though his voice was low and hoarse. But the dragon, still, could hardly move, and craved warmth as the chill continued to cling to him. Anduin had guessed it had been the slow, seeping possession of the Sha in those last days before Wrathion had snapped that had debilitated his body into the coma-like state.

Anduin finished tying and sticking the gauze together. He ran his hands over it, testing its strength, then nodded to himself.

“There,” the prince said. Wrathion was looking at him again from the corner of his seeable eye. “Now, don’t move.”

He slung a long strip of the gauze and, gently, lifted Wrathion’s head to loop it around the dragon’s neck. He made sure the back side of the loop was behind the Black Prince, and secured the loose end at the cast to make a comfortable sling. Anduin pushed the blanket off Wrathion’s face in the process, even though he found it funny.

“I hardly see why you can’t just -” The ends of Wrathion’s right fingers, poking out from the cast, wiggled slightly to illustrate. “Heal me with your precious Light.” Despite his raspy voice, there was a whine to his tone.

“I healed you as much as I could,” Anduin said, sitting on the side of the bed and straightening the blankets around the dragon. “You could think about it like my leg. The Light’s strong, but there’s still consequences to wounds.”

Wrathion huffed, clearly displeased. He glanced at his arm and shifted it once, winced, then went still again.

Anduin only smiled wryly. He was glad Wrathion was strong enough to speak again.

“Just because I -”

“Someone is coming,” Left said. She was standing guard by the door. Anduin looked up. He heard nothing at first – until the sound of footsteps, lengthy and faint, came from beyond the door.

“I need to speak to Prince Anduin.” The voice was muffled behind the wall. Anduin recognized it immediately – Amber Kearnen.

He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over himself in the process. If Amber was here -…

Then the SI:7 was back – and that surely meant they’d found the dragon Chi-ji had spoken of. Anduin grinned widely.

… Then stopped grinning. The excited smile fell so fast off of his face it looked like someone had slapped it off of him.

He’d forgotten to tell Wrathion and Left about seeking help from another dragon.

Anduin forced the grimace that threatened his face away. He’d thought that the SI:7 would take longer to find this dragon, giving Anduin more than enough time to explain to Wrathion and Left why he’d sought out the wyrm, even though he’d wished they would be quick in their hunt -… but they had been quick, and for all Anduin knew, that dragon could be standing right before the door right now.

Left was staring at him, her blue eyes narrowed.

“For what purpose?” Came the gruff reply of one of the stern guards.

“Classified. Now move and let me open the door.”

“What do they want?” The orc whispered tersely, low enough so those on the other side of the door couldn’t hear.

“Uh -”

A heavy knock resounded from the door. “Prince Anduin, Amber Kearnen of the SI:7 wishes to see you. Shall we let her through?”

“Uhm – one moment, please!”

“Prince.” Left was looking at him hard.

Anduin shifted his weight. Wrathion studying him, too.

The prince berated himself. How could he be so forgetful as to neglect to tell them the very important little detail that a dragon was coming to visit - a dragon that may just be hostile.

“When I went to Chi-ji, he recommended someone for me to seek out to help heal Wrathion’s sickness,” Anduin started. “I asked the SI:7 to find them.”

“Well? Who is it?” Left asked.

Anduin paused before continuing. “I’m… not sure. Chi-ji didn’t give me her name. But she’s a dragon.”

The room went so quiet the moment the word “dragon” slipped from Anduin’s lips that the prince could hear the guards’ shuffling of feet outside.

Left stared. Wrathion finally broke the silence with a growl.

Anduin tried not to wince. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell both of you sooner -”

“What dull idea was it that spurred you to think bringing some – dragon to me was viable one?” Wrathion whispered hoarsely. “Are you really that naïve?”

Anduin glared at him. “I didn’t have a choice. You’re sick, and I can’t heal you! Someone of your own kind -”

“They are not my kind,” Wrathion hissed. “No one is.”

“Now you’re just being melodramat -!”

“Prince Anduin?”

It was the guard again. Both princes went quiet.

“Yes, one moment,” Anduin called back.

“You are not opening that door, Prince Anduin,” Wrathion said, glaring.

“I’m doing this for your benefit, Wrathion,” Anduin said.

“Whoever is behind that door could be… unfavorable to me,” the dragon said. “Must you really gamble with my safety so easily?”

Anduin’s glare deepened. “I just told you I’m doing this for your benefit. I know the risks, and I think you know better than to say I’m reckless with your well-being, Wrathion.”

The dragon huffed. Anduin continued to glare.

“Left and I are here to protect you, anyway.”

“Yes, well, all the same, you will not be opening that door.” Wrathion glanced at Left, then at Anduin.

“If I don’t, you’re going to die.”

They were still speaking in hissing whispers. They glowered at one another.

“I admire your – wait!”

Anduin had turned and was walking to the door.

“Anduin! Anduin Wrynn! Get back here!” The bed squeaked behind Anduin as Wrathion tried to move. “Ugh - Left!”

Left moved in front of Anduin at her Prince’s order. The door was three steps away.

Anduin looked up at her. Without breaking eye contact, he said:

“Alright. You can let her in.”

The door opened. Left managed a quick scowl before she was forced to move and hide behind the door.

Anduin, in turn, maneuvered his body so that Wrathion would be hidden behind him.

Amber Kearnen stood in the frame. Her face was smudged with dirt, her black ponytail astray and unbrushed, but she held herself confidently with one hand on her hip.

“We found her.”

Anduin smiled.

“That was fast,” he said, still smiling. Even if there was the risk of this dragon, whoever she was, being hostile, the gains were stronger; Wrathion could be cured of his sickness in only a few moments.

And if the dragon was hostile -… well, Left’s crossbow was probably loaded and ready.

“She wasn’t too hard to find. You know how you said she was at the Temple of the Jade Serpent? She didn’t exactly leave.”

Anduin nodded, then looked behind Amber. She seemed to be alone. His anxiousness was making his skin begin to prickle.

“That’s – that’s great. Where is-?”

“Sully’s leading her up now. I wanted to give you a head’s up.” Amber leaned, trying to look around Anduin. “So you could prepare… whoever’s in here.”

The prince leaned with her, blocking her view.

The agent rolled her eyes and straightened, her ponytail swinging. “You keep more secrets than the SI:7 does, Prince Anduin.”

“Not more secrets than the person behind me,” Anduin replied.

Amber gave him a sharp look.

“I guess I’ll just found out about it later,” Amber said, annoyed.

Anduin gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I’ve promised not to let anyone know besides only a handful of people.”

He was sorry to keep the secret from her – she’d managed to find the dragon, after all – but he had Left’s promise to keep, and he knew Varian didn’t want the secret out, either.

“Did you get her name?” The prince asked, quick to change the subject before Amber goaded him about who he was hiding, which he suspected the agent had been about to do, because she’d furrowed her brows and opened her mouth, as if to argue. Anduin paused, then more hesitantly, continued: “And her Flight?”

“Not her name. She’s a Red, though.”

A red dragon.

Oh, no. Anduin almost winced.

A red dragon was in the Keep, part of the Flight that had made then tried to destroy Wrathion.

Behind the door, Left scowled.

Anduin thought quickly. He’d taken the risk of seeking out this dragon’s aid, out of the desperation of having no more options left, and had simply hoped it wouldn’t be a Red dragon, the worst possible option.

But it was a Red.

Maybe this red dragon would be different. After all, Chi-ji himself had told Anduin to seek the dragon out; the Red Crane had expressed his concern for the Black Prince. Anduin was almost certain, as he had thought beforehand, that the Celestial would not endanger Wrathion with recommending this stranger.

… Unless Chi-ji was not aware of the hate between Wrathion and the red dragonflight.

Anduin hoped it was the former.

“You can ask her her name when she gets here,” Amber grumbled. She seemed to have taken Anduin’s silence as him being displeased not with the info, but the lack of it. “She’s quiet.”

Anduin jumped from his reverie and tried to snuff out his surge of anxiety. He focused back on the sniper. “Oh – yes, I will.” He smiled at her. “Thank you for doing this.” Anduin’s smile turn wry. “I’m glad it let you leave the beach.”

Amber smirked, then nodded. “Me too. Let’s just hope that -”

“Here!”

Anduin startled. Sully had appeared behind Amber; he grinned wide, his face dirty with soot, just like Amber’s. “Sorry ‘bout the delay. The guards at the stairs were all grumbly ‘bout ‘er.”

Sully was here, and that meant so was the red dragon. Anduin swallowed, his heart quickening. From the corner of his eye, Anduin noted Left staring at him intently.

Anduin smiled, too, at the dwarf. “I hope they weren’t too rude,” he said. The dwarf laughed.

“Oh, no! They’re jus’ real huffy. An unhappy an’ suspicious lot.” He noticed the two guards flanking the sides of Anduin’s door. “… Sorry, lads.” The guards said nothing.

Amber looked to the side where Sully stood, then nodded not to the dwarf, but to someone else unseen, hidden by the wall. She looked back at Anduin. “Alright, kid. We’ll leave you to your introductions and healing. Our work’s done.” The agent rolled back her shoulders, then looked down at Sully. “Let’s go. He looks too impatient.”

She turned and disappeared beyond the hallway, her footsteps heavy.

“Thank you, Sully,” Anduin said. The dwarf nodded.

“Eh, sure! Was a fun venture. Good luck to you an’ yer sickly friend, lad,” he replied with a coy grin.

Anduin thanked him, and the dwarf took off after Amber, his quick footsteps muffled against the stuffy stone walls.

A quick hello and goodbye, but Anduin expected that from the SI:7; they were all duty and forwardness, with no time to waste. And with their mission over, they were probably needed elsewhere… like explaining to Marshal Troteman where they’d gone off to.

The prince took a steadying breath.

Besides the two guards, the dragon was alone outside.

He glanced at Left. Left stared back. Her hand was tight on the trigger.

Anduin looked back over his shoulder at Wrathion. The dragon was pushed up against the headboard, his back flat against it, as his eyes were trained on not Anduin, but the doorway.

After all the Black Prince had gone through in the past days, Anduin dearly hoped that this would end well. He sent a quick prayer before turning back to the door, bracing himself.

The dragon didn’t appear at first.

“Hello?” Anduin said, wary. “It’s alright. You can come inside.”

The moment the prince spoke, the dragon moved into view.

She was tall, even taller than the two guards; her skin was a muted, pinkish red, and her hair a bright crimson. Around her entire frame was draped a near-silk red robe, embroidered with curling golden cloud serpents. Even from the two feet away she was standing, Anduin could feel the shimmering heat coming off of her. Where Wrathion smelled like smoke and spice, this dragon’s scent was an odd mixture of the heady smell of blooming flowers and the smokey spark of a flame, reminiscent of the cinderbloom petals Anduin had gathered from the storeroom.

The dragon looked down at Anduin curiously. Her eyes were orange, but did not glow.

Anduin stared at her.

He realized he was gawking. The prince smiled quickly, mustering all of his royal training to display confidence and politeness to mask his anxiety.

“Hello,” he said again, this time less nervous, but more welcoming, which was more like him. The dragon had a kind, but oddly intense, face. “I’m Anduin Wrynn.”

The dragon smiled at him, gently. “Yes, you are.” Her voice was pleasant, but strong.

Anduin tilted his head.

He waited for the dragon to offer her own name, but she continued to keep looking at him, as if waiting for Anduin to continue.

The prince cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming here. My- … friend… is very sick, as I’m sure the SI:7 let you know. It was Chi-ji that told me to seek you out.” His tone was calm and kind; he needed to make this dragon comfortable in the Keep, though she looked it already.

If this dragon had come all the way from the Temple of the Jade Serpent to Lion’s Landing to heal a stranger, Anduin thought, surely she couldn’t be hostile. Some dragons, he knew, often thought little of the mortal races, thinking them lesser beings. Anduin hadn’t told the SI:7 who he was trying to heal; the dragon standing in front of him may as well be expecting to heal a mortal.

Yet still, she’d come. It was reassuring.

At least that’s what the prince was trying to tell himself.

The dragon nodded once, slowly. “I was told of a terrible sickness. I am glad to help however I can.” She cocked her head to the side at a slight angle and regarded Anduin thoughtfully. “I know you as a gifted healer, Anduin.” She was speaking to him as if she’d known him for a very long time. It was only then that Anduin noticed how… ancient the look in her eyes looked, how deep and knowledgeable her gaze was.

… Who was she?

“What is this sickness you cannot heal?”

Anduin hesitated, nervous.

He had to introduce Wrathion now.

Anduin tried hard not to look at Left, whose crossbow was aimed at the door and directly at side of the dragon’s throat. The dragon seemed nice, he told himself again. Maybe she’d stay nice once she realized who she was healing.

“Here – come inside, first.” He moved back a couple of steps. The dragon entered the room, graceful in her movements.

Left closed the door the instant the red dragon made it inside with a quick hit of her heel.

Anduin gave the orc a hard look; she wasn’t exactly being subtle, and the prince was well aware that the dragon might not take kindly to having a crossbow aimed at her, which only made the situation a trite more dangerous than it might turn out to be. But the Blacktalon wasn’t look at him; her eyes remained trained on the dragon.

The Red turned her head to look at Left. Anduin watched, his jaw locked, his hands tense at his sides, as the dragon’s eyes drifted down to the crossbow, then back up to the orc. Left looked back, emotionless.

“I will not harm anyone,” the dragon said. “There is no need for your weapon, mortal.”

Left said nothing. Anduin glared at her, but the orc did not look at him, still.

The dragon looked back at Anduin. Her kindly but serious expression hadn’t changed. The prince allowed himself to relax; she didn’t seem to be aggravated by the threat. Anduin hoped it was because she wanted peace -… and not that she was powerful enough where a mere crossbow could not harm her.

The Red raised a brow, expectantly. Anduin realized he was still standing in front of Wrathion.

“Oh!” He said, a bit too loud. “I’m sorry. He’s here.” The prince shifted his body so that he was no longer shielding Wrathion from sight, but turned so he was at the side of the Red and facing the Black Prince.

Wrathion was still pushed up against the bed. He looked like a cornered animal, with his pupils dilated into the smallest slits and his eyes wide, and his mouth turned back, threatening to become a wobbly scowl. But try as he might to look threatening, he looked ridiculous shivering in his cocoon of blankets.

Anduin side-glanced the red dragon. He found himself wishing to summon a smiting spell in his hands, just in case – but he shook the thought away. No. He would not be like Left and be overly hostile to ensure ultimate caution. This would be presented with peace in mind, and if it became a worse threat, Anduin would react accordingly.

The Red’s eyes drifted to Wrathion.

Her orange eyes narrowed.

Anduin stiffened. His free hand curled into an anxious fist on its own accord.

The two dragons stared at each other for a long, tense moment. The air in the room, light and briny from the ocean wind that came in warm through the open window, shifted, growing heavier with the weight of danger. Wrathion’s shoulders were taut, his defensive stance unchanging.

The red dragon, though, did not seem hostile – she seemed… surprised.

For a moment, the dragon did nothing. She simply stared at Wrathion, studying him.

“The Black Prince Wrathion,” she said, breaking the silence. Anduin bit back a grimace; she had recognized him.

Hesitant, Anduin nodded, just as Wrathion spoke.

“And you are?” Wrathion asked. It sounded like he was trying to sneer but it came off as shaky and unsure.

She approached the bed without answering. Behind him, Anduin heard Left’s crossbow shift with a clink as the orc’s hand tightened on the trigger. The prince followed the red dragon, moving himself so that he was at the head of the bed and his body leaning slightly over it, protective in his stance.

The red-head studied Wrathion again, looking down at him. Her expression was unreadable. Wrathion glowered back weakly. His chest lifted and fell with a quickened pace.

Wrathion was nervous. Of course he was, Anduin thought – it was the Red Dragonflight that had experimented on the dragon’s egg, and the Red Dragonflight that had tried to control him. Had the last time Wrathion had seen a red dragon was when one had come to kill him?

It was no wonder, then, he looked so defensive, how his chest rose and fell so quickly. Anduin found himself not blaming the Black Prince for acting like this.

Anduin let go of his cane and sat on the bed, his knees folded underneath him and his feet hanging just over the side. He put a hand on Wrathion’s tense but quivering shoulder, comforting but firm in his grip.

The prince put his head close. “She’s going to heal you, Wrathion,” he murmured. “Shes’s not going to hurt you; I’ll make sure of that.”

Wrathion’s eyes flicked over to Anduin, almost accusatory in his look, before he glanced back at the red dragon, who was watching the two princes curiously.

“If you want to get better, you need to relax. Please.”

“I will ‘relax’ when I know who she is, thank you,” Wrathion whispered back, a hiss to his words.

“I will not harm you,” the red dragon said. Anduin leaned his face away from the Black Prince, and his hand fell from the dragon’s shoulder.

“I hope you’ll be unsurprised when I say I don’t believe you,” Wrathion retorted.

“You doubt me.”

“Of – well, of course I do!” Wrathion said. He stared at her with an expression of open, almost exaggerated, disbelief. “You red dragons have been nothing but enemies and assailants to me. That is reason enough.”

The red dragon smiled. There was a sadness at in the corners of her eyes.

“I understand; I do not blame you for your discomfort at my presence.”

Wrathion stared at her, his eyebrows sloped downward.

“Uhm – yes,” he said. Wrathion was expecting more of a confrontation, judging by his confusion at her answer.

“But please, allow me to see what ails you, young one,” the red dragon said. “Then I shall explain. May I take your arm?” The red dragon asked. She still seem unfazed by Wrathion’s wariness, and there was an air of motherliness to her, kind and gentle.

Wrathion shook his head.

“Wrathion,” Anduin said, annoyed at the Black Prince’s lack of cooperation. They finally had someone who could heal him, and Wrathion was deciding to be stubborn because of grudges.

“It’s alright.” The blond prince turned his head to the older dragon. “He does not trust me still.”

“He’s only being -”

The red dragon raised a hand to interrupt the blond. Anduin found himself closing his mouth without much thought. Something about the way the dragon spoke and moved was authoritative, even to the Prince of Stormwind.

“I will try to gain your trust, Black Prince.” The dragon looked at Wrathion seriously. She bent her head, but did not break eye contact. “I did not share my identity with the young human prince, but I will share it now. I was once called many names; I have lived a very long time. Some called me the Life-binder.”

Anduin stared at her. His eyes went wide, and his mouth went agape without him realizing it.

He, like everyone, knew about the Aspects: Nozdormu the Timeless One, Kalecgos the Steward of Magic, Ysera the Awakened -…

She… she couldn’t possibly be -

“… You’re Alexstrasza,” he mumbled, disbelieving. “You’re the Aspect of Life.”

The dragon’s ancient eyes, her air of motherliness…

One of the remaining Aspects was sitting on Anduin’s bed in Lion’s Landing right across from the son of Deathwing.

This had escalated very quickly.

Chi-ji recommending her made sense, now. Out of all of the dragons, they’d found the Queen.

Anduin stared, gawking again, and not realizing he did so.

Alexstrasza smiled at Anduin, though it did not reach her eyes. “Though I am still Alexstrasza, I am Aspect no longer.” She looked at Wrathion. “I would wish you no harm, Black Prince. I only wish to heal you, so that Life may find you again.”

Wrathion had nearly the same expression on his face as Anduin did. His eyes were wide and his face slack with surprise – but he quickly composed himself, his face a wobbly mask of his usually confident one. The dragon twisted up to a better sitting position so he looked more upright, and straightened out his shoulders, though Anduin could tell even those slight movements caused him pain by the way his lip curled back. He was trying very hard to look more dignified.

“Oh, how charming. The Queen of Dragons has decided to pay her creation a visit.” Wrathion said, bitter. His voice shook slightly. Anduin thought it was from his disease, but by the way the Black Prince’s eyes were dilated, how his mouth was set in a thin, tense line, he couldn’t be sure.

The tension in the room began to rise.  
Anduin thought quickly. A red dragon was bad enough, considering Wrathion’s history with them, but – Alexstrasza? Anduin could still hardly believe that one of the Aspects was in his room, like she’d just walked out of a page in history and made herself comfortable in reality.

“Have you run out of your loyal little children to send on your errands, Alexstrasza?”

Wrathion added, when the red dragon said nothing. Anduin gave him a warning look. He wasn’t making the situation any better.

“I was sought out personally, though I do not think they realized who I was,” Alexstrasza responded. She was unfazed by Wrathion’s taunts, like a mother might be to a child’s whining. “I did not know I would find you here.”

“Here I am. Now go away.”

“She’s going to help you!”

“This doesn’t concern you, Anduin Wrynn,” Wrathion snapped, without taking his eyes off of the Life-binder.

Anduin knew Wrathion was nervous. He knew the grudges he had. He knew what the Red Dragonflight had done to him.

But the Prince of Stormwind was about to let the dragon be stubborn in not accepting help from one just because he couldn’t look passed that.

“I don’t think she -”

“You don’t know what they’re like,” Wrathion interrupted. “Everyone thinks Reds are honest and genuine and kind – but I know better.”

“I am not here to hurt you, young one. I only wish to help. Allow me to show my good faith by seeing what ails you.”

Wrathion narrowed his eyes.

Alexstrasza reached out.

Anduin held his breath. Wrathion didn’t move as the former Aspect pulled aside the thick covers. The great red dragon paused as she caught the motion of Wrathion’s shaking. She tilted her head, contemplative, before looking at Wrathion’s right arm before outstretching her hand. Surprisingly, her hand, which had been hidden beneath the thin robe, was clad in an iron gauntlet of reddish purple, tipped with golden claws.

Alexstrasza pushed up his sleeve. Wrathion continued to watch her.

Anduin was honestly amazed he hadn’t yelled at her – but if he thought it… really, what could the Black Prince do himself in this situation, other than to snark and to whine, which he’d stopped doing now? Left had the crossbow aimed on the red dragon, anyway. But with the Alexstrasza so close, Wrathion, apparently, thought that staying still, like he was either a viper ready to bite or a mouse freezing in the eyes of a cat, was the best option as the elder dragon surveyed him.

Alexstrasza placed her hand on his skin.

She stayed like that for a moment before taking her hand away, nodding to herself.

“Do you know what it is?” Anduin asked, anxious, his grip tightening on his cane.

The Red nodded. Wrathion’s defensive expression didn’t change. He was as still as he’d been when Alexstrasza had leaned forward, as if he’d grown so cold he’d simply frozen there with the glare on his face.

“Can you heal him?”

“Yes.”

“Well? What is it, Life-binder?” Wrathion asked, snootily. “I’d like to know what’s trying to kill me.”

The dragon either didn’t pick up on the Black Prince’s attitude or saw and didn’t mind. She smiled at Wrathion patiently, motherly, with her look.

“I am surprised you do not know – but then I am aware you have not met many of your kind.” She began to pull of her heavy metal gauntlets. “We are different than humans, Black Prince, and so our kind is affected by those diseases which do not harm the younger races.” She set the gauntlets off to the side of the bed. The great dragon tilted her head, considering. “Allow me to give an example – the red pox on the planet Draenor would not harm dragonkind… but to mortals, it was a devastating disease. Do you see? Even viruses, who strive to end Life, evolve as Life does, to find their quarry.”

Wrathion stared at her, his eyes lidded. Anduin, meanwhile, looked at Alexstrasza with open interest.

“I hardly see how that answers my question of ‘what is it,’ Alexstrasza,” Wrathion said, enunciating her name slowly, with a tinge of mocking there in his tone. Anduin shot him a glare.

Alexstrasza stared at him. Wrathion stared back, but started to look uncomfortable when the red dragon didn’t say anything after a long moment. He cleared his throat and broke his gaze.

“I will explain. This virus has taught itself to feast on a dragon’s inner energy, as a parasite might feed off of the energy from any organism. Mortals know little of its existence… dragons do not like admitting weakness,” she smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “You find yourself in such a chill because of this disease. All dragons share different powers, but all have the heat of the flame in their hearts. It is this heat the illness feasts off, and I am glad to have come when I did; it has been a very long time since I have seen it this severe. It is close to eating the rest of your energy away. Death is very close to you, young one.”

“Wonderful.” Wrathion shifted his shoulders around. “I would like to be healed if I’m about to die, if you are really intending to just ‘help me.’” His words oozed sarcasm and animosity.

Alexstrasza only nodded. She turned to Anduin.

“I must ask you to leave, now.” She looked back at Left, too, who hadn’t moved and whose crossbow was still aimed on the Aspect. “You, as well. This disease is simple to heal, but it will take time, and the room will become uncomfortable for mortal bodies.”

Anduin frowned, confused, but interested. “Why?”

Alexstrasza smiled patiently at him. “I may no longer be Aspect, but my flame still heals. I do not wish for either of you to be hurt against the fire when the room superheats.”

The prince blinked. “You -… you’re not going to set my room on fire, are you?”

Alexstrasza smiled again, amused. “No. But for your own safety, I must ask you to leave.” She must have noted the hesitance in Anduin’s eyes. “I will not harm your friend.”

Anduin glanced down at Wrathion. Alexstrasza seemed kind enough… but it was not her he was worried about. He was worried about Wrathion being alone with her, and worried about how comfortable he would be with that.

“Are you okay with that?” Anduin asked. Wrathion was squinting suspiciously at Alexstrasza.

“I… Yes. Go away,” Wrathion looked unsure at first before his brows tilted down in annoyance. “I do not need you worrying over me like a mother hen, Anduin Wrynn. I will be just fine.” It sounded like he was trying to reassure himself, now. Anduin paused, unsure, and Wrathion gestured his head to the door, insistent.

“My Prince?”

Wrathion looked back at Left. His brows furrowed. He looked at Alexstrasza. “I would feel much better if my guard here might be able to stay with that wonderful crossbow,” he said.

Alexstrasza was unfazed by the vague threat. “I am sorry, but no.”

Wrathion made a whiny, grumbling sound in the back of his throat. “Very well. Left, accompany Prince Anduin and make sure he doesn’t trip over himself.”

Anduin glared at him, then looked at Alexstrasza. “Are you sure I can’t stay?”

She smiled apologetically. “I am sorry. It is too dangerous.”

“Honestly, Prince Anduin. I can take care of myself,” Wrathion interrupted.

Anduin hesitated – then relented, standing up and grabbing his cane. Maybe the Black Prince wanted the air of confidence back, despite how uncomfortable he was in the presence of Alexstrasza. Maybe he wanted the independence.

Wrathion was looking at him intently. Anduin looked back. There was a level of understanding; Anduin sighed and nodded.

“Alright. I’ll be outside. Left, you may want to stealth,” Anduin added. “The guards -”

The orc disappeared before his eyes. The prince smiled, then looked back at the two dragons. He swallowed.

Wrathion would be fine, he told himself. Anduin would be right outside the door, anyway, and if something did go wrong…

No. He couldn’t think so negatively.

“Be nice,” Anduin said with a grin.

Wrathion rolled his eyes.

Anduin turned and left the room, closing the door behind him, trying to calm his nervous head and heart.

—-

Wrathion’s eyes did not leave Alexstrasza as Anduin left the room.

The Black Prince had decided that this nightmare was only becoming worse in order to test his level of misery.

“If you are going to try to capture me and drag me back to – wherever you’re hiding, do so quickly so that I can call my Agents on you, in turn,” Wrathion said. All pretense was gone, now that the prince of Stormwind was. He looked at the former Aspect with open distrust and disdain, his clawed hands curled.

How could things have possibly gotten any worse? What god had he angered? What lord of karma had decided to crush his face in? He’d hardly done anything wrong.

First there’d been the lovely surprise of finding he had not been the last black dragon. Then he’d gotten a charming surprise visit from his elder brother, who had smashed him into a fine pulp. Then he’d been tortured and demeaned and had been forced to lose his composure. Then he’d been as helpless as he had been in his egg because of his terrible injuries. Then he’d gotten sick. Then he’d been corrupted by the Sh-

No. Wait. He couldn’t let himself remember that part of his worsening month.

His chest, his stomach, curled at the mere thought of the memory of the Sha; the despair, the overwhelming sadness, was a ripe scar against the back of his eyes, dark and sinister. The slashes he’d given himself when he had been in his crazed state began to pulse with ghost-pain, even though they’d been healed the previous day.

No. He couldn’t remember the Sha.

Anduin had thought the dragon had been sleeping the entire day yesterday - and though Wrathion had slept part of it, he’d pretended to sleep for the rest, just so he could avoid Anduin’s worried looks and prodding questions. He did not want the prince to bring up what had happened again, as Anduin had brought it up in the Black Market Auction House.

Wrathion wanted to forget that it ever happened, even though the memory would not go away fully, try as hard as he might.

And he wanted to forget the voice he had heard, that rumbling, ancient, terrible voice…

No – he could not remember that. He forced the memories away before the dull panic came back.

But even then, with those memories gone, shoved in the back of his head, he was dealing with something unpleasant happening right in front of him now.

Because, just as his situation couldn’t get worse, it did, and the leader of the Flight he so hated was sitting on the side of his bed and watching him.

Of course it couldn’t be a regular dragon. Oh, no. It had to be the Queen of dragons.

The fact she was sitting in front of him was absurd in itself. Was this actually happening, or was this a very bad and realistic nightmare?

Wrathion continued to glare at her as he struggled to find what Sabellian had called his “unending pool of confidence,” and clung to the edge of it when he managed to muster some of it from his blurring thoughts. But even then, his quickly rising and falling chest belayed what he didn’t want the red dragon to see – his fear.

The dragon hated the Red Dragonflight for they did to him.

But, even if he would never admit it to himself, he was afraid of them.

They were the ones who had captured him from his mother. They were the ones who had made him feel such overwhelming pain in the egg. They were the ones who had intended to raise him and cage him like a specimen behind a cage to do what they pleased to him, to take his freedom, his independence away, to make his life a huge experiment.

But he had Left outside, as well as Anduin, and even the Alliance guards. Alexstrasza couldn’t be dull enough to try to barge out of here with him and not expect retaliation. That was calming, at least…

But still, it didn’t calm him fully. His aching muscles were flexed, tense. Once he dealt with this… problem, he would yell at Anduin Wrynn for being so irrevocably stupid.

Alexstrasza regarded him calmly. “I am only here to heal you, Black Prince. Nothing more.”

Wrathion scoffed.

Alexstrasza said nothing. Gently, she leaned forward and grabbed his left hand, pulling it over the blankets and closer to her. Wrathion’s body stiffened, wary.

“I will use my fire to burn away the disease. I must pull these blankets off; you will be cold, but I do not wish to burn them.”

Wrathion said nothing.

Why did she seem so… genuine? When was she going to let down this act? The red dragons were hers. It had been the former Aspect that had made them experiment on his egg, and the former Aspect that had sent her children to kill him after he’d proven to unruly to control. She had been the orchestrator.

“Do not try to move often as I begin the process.”

She still wasn’t dropping the act. Wrathion stared at her, blatantly confused now.

“Why are you helping me?” He blurted, just as smoke had begun to curl from Alexstrasza’s mouth. “It was your Flight that made and tried to destroy me! You should -” he floundered for words - “Shouldn’t you be trying to put me in a cage somewhere?” He said, bitter and angry.

Alexstrasza looked up at him. Her calm expression didn’t even flinch.

“I am helping you because I feel guilt and responsibility for the pain my Flight caused you,” she said quietly. “I hope saving you now may show you the apology I was never able to say to you before.”

Wrathion had not been expecting that answer.

He stared at her, openly baffled. It sounded like she actually meant it.

“I see,” Wrathion said, slowly, his sudden anger gone. Wrathion shifted, awkward. She wasn’t even trying to argue with him; she knew what her Flight had done was not easy on him. He grew annoyed. “And you think blowing some… magic fire will make me forgive you.”

Alexstrasza shook her head. Her warm hands had become burning hot against Wrathion’s cold skin on his forearm.

“No. I am not foolish enough to expect that,” she said. “But I hope it alleviates the distrust you have in me.”

“One favor won’t make me forget,” Wrathion snapped, his voice tripping over the hoarseness in his throat. He scowled at himself, annoyed by the weakness, before continuing. “Your Rheastrasza stole my egg from my mother and experimented on me. Do you know how much pain I felt? I -”

He stopped. Wrathion had never spoken this out loud to anyone, not even in depth to Anduin, besides a brief mention of how the Reds had created him through experimentation.

But he’d never told anyone about the pain he remembered, a pain like being ripped apart and stitched back together again, forcefully, surgically, and without the slightest emotion, as if he was just flesh to be manipulated like the scourge did with their abominations.

Wrathion, in his nightmares, felt like a monster. He recalled, closing his eyes to compose himself for a brief moment, how he’d sobbed about being an abomination to Anduin, there on Mason’s Folly, as he spat his deepest fears and doubts to the prince.

He forced the memory away again as he opened his red eyes and fixed on Alexstrasza, who watched him, frowning.

“I cannot imagine the pain you went through. But we did what we must. It was for the greater good.” Her orange eyes became somber. “I do not wish to justify your experience, but where would you be now, if my daughter had not done what she did to save your Flight from the taint?”

Wrathion hesitated.

He knew where he’d be. If his mother had not been in her prison, if he had hatched tainted – he would be among the piles of bones of his other brothers and sisters, nameless, unworthy, corrupted.

“… Yes, well,” Wrathion grumbled, “that doesn’t make up for how you didn’t like how your precious little prize ended up too disorderly for your liking and you decided the best option would be to simply kill it, Life-binder.”

Alexstrasza’s eyes flickered.

“I did not order your death sentence, Black Prince.” She pushed back some of the blankets. Wrathion began to shake harder as they came off. “I may have been the leader of the Red Dragonflight, but I couldn’t change the opinions of all of my children. They are my blood, but every dragon has their own mind.”

Wrathion raised a brow.

Alexstrasza continued. “When I sent Rheastrasza to the Badlands, I did so in secrecy. Deathwing was engaged in other matters for his Cataclysm, too deep in his plans to notice one of my children grabbing one of his own.” She looked up, sad. “Your mother.”

Wrathion forced his expression not to change.

“Rheastrasza made Nyxondra lay eggs, then took them from her. It was not something I wished to do, having been subject to something so similar to that, myself. But we hoped to find some cure, there in those children.” Her hot hands flicked with red flame at the tips of the claws. “When Rheastrasza succeeded – with you – and sacrificed herself for your well-being, it was I who announced you to my children. Many were angry.” She sighed. “They did not trust what I was telling them; the Black Dragonflight, as they knew it, was irredeemable. They wanted to crush your egg, to be done with your kin forever.” The great dragon shook her head. “I would not let them. We were the Guardians of Life. It was our duty to protect Life, to nurture it. What guardian would snuff out an entire species, if it had a hope?”

Alexstrasza smiled at him briefly before she grew somber again. “Then the rogues stole you. My son came back with broken legs.” She eyed him.

“My apologies,” Wrathion drawled without sincerity.

She looked at him critically before continuing. “It was then those who had wished to destroy you in the egg began to grow angrier at your insolence. I did not see it at first; I was occupied with the assault against your Father. But once he was defeated, and our powers gone, I learned where a handful of my children had gone to and did not return from. They took it upon themselves to kill you, Black Prince. It was not under my command, but I still find myself responsible.”

Wrathion didn’t say anything for a long time. He was looking down now, his brows furrowed.

“You still wished to control me,” he said, breaking the silence that was only permeated by the gentle crackling from the fire at Alexstrasza’s hands. “Don’t sit there and pretend you trusted me fully, Life-binder.”

“Yes. I was wary. We all were, I must admit. We wanted to be careful, to make certain that you would not fall into the corruption your Father -”

“I am free of his corruption,” Wrathion interrupted. “I did not need to be raised, still an… an experiment because it was your duty.”

Alexstrasza moved suddenly. Wrathion tensed. Her hand rested on the side of his face. Her eyes were kind and sad and serious, and her touch hot but strangely comforting. For a brief moment, a broken memory of the same feeling shifted in his mind, a memory of instinctual warmth in the dark against something great and protective, but it spun away, forgotten.

“Nothing I will say will take away what happened to you, and I know you will always feel hatred towards my race,” Alexstrasza said. “But remember my apology, Black Prince, and know I am truly sorry for your suffering and the prejudice my children showed you.”

Her hand fell away. Wrathion blinked.

What was he supposed to say to that?

The Black Prince only nodded once, sharply, at a loss and confused about the tenderness she was showing him.

“Now, please. I must heal you. The virus grows stronger even as we speak.” Her tone had shifted; no longer did she sound purely sincere. She sounded authoritative, but not in a harsh manner.

Wrathion nodded again. His head was numb, the wirings inside tangled as he tried to make sense of everything Alexstrasza had just told him.

Alexstrasza pulled back all of the blankets, now.

“Your wounds are fresh,” she noted, after taking in the now-faint scars of where he’d be cut, where he’d been slashed and bruised and everything in-between.

“Mm.”

Her thin brows bent. She shook her head, and her hands sprung with flame, enveloping the entirety of them, coming to rest at her wrists.

Wrathion wasn’t afraid of the fire. It didn’t hurt him.

“So. You’ll be ‘searing it away,’ hm?” He asked, unnerved by the silence between them.

Alexstrasza placed her burning hands on Wrathion’s arm. The moment the fire touched his cold skin, his freezing muscles there underneath jolted. His shoulders jumped from the surprise of the sudden relief from the cold.

She really wasn’t playing around with him.

“Yes. An easy concept. As I said, I have not seen in this severe in a very long time. Dragon fire is what cures the virus – but when infected, it is hard for a dragon to breathe their flame, which is why it is so dangerous. Have you tried a flame during your sickness?”

“Well – no. I was… otherwise engaged with my… other wounds.”

And with the Sha, but he didn’t want to remember that.

The Life-binder only nodded. “You would not be able to.” She paused, considering. “Hatchlings are often the most susceptible, but their mothers are usually there to burn it away.”

“Oh.”

“I believe you have much to learn about your own kind, Wrathion,” Alexstrasza said, not unkindly. The Black Prince squinted at her, suddenly suspicious as she used his name for the first time.

“I know enough, thank you,” he said with sure indigence.

Alexstrasza hummed in the back of her throat. She didn’t argue, but Wrathion could tell she didn’t believe him.

How much do you know about dragon culture? You’ve been alone, haven’t you?

Wrathion scowled. Sabellian had pointed out his lack of knowledge, too, in the Kun-lai cave.

Alexstrasza began moving her flaming hands down to Wrathion’s hand, her pace as slow. Wherever her hands hovered, the fire flicking brightly underneath, Wrathion’s skin warmed, gathering in heat until it was healthy again. Already the forearm of his left hand was simmering with his normal draconic heat, and though it wasn’t even a quarter of his body, the relief was lovely. His body leaned just slightly towards the left arm, craving that same heat, and the Black Prince sighed; he was content for that fleeting moment… until he wished Alexstrasza would just hurry up already.

“How long will this take, exactly?” He asked.

“A while. Be patient.”

The air was shimmering with the heat; Alexstrasza had not been lying when she said the room would become hot.

“Ugh. Yes, alright,” he mumbled, looking away and up at the ceiling.

Wrathion’s eyes half-closed as the flames continued to flicker up and down his left arm as they scorched out the clinging disease there and heated his flesh in the process. He felt his strength returning; his sunken chest, which was still healing its broken ribs, began to thrum, low, now, with the returning energy. The dragon’s lips drawled up in a lazy grin.

Well. This had gone much better than he’d expected. Something about how Alexstrasza the Aspect of Life – former Aspect, he had to remind himself – sitting in the same room as him and not trying to rip his head off with her teeth or barring him in a cage but helping him hadn’t exactly… clicked yet in his mind. He was in a vague sense of disbelief.

He frowned. He lifted his head up from the pillows to look at her. By then his left arm was searing with that precious heat, and the red dragon’s flames were at his left shoulder now.

“Why are you on Pandaria?”

That hadn’t even crossed his mind before.

How hadn’t his Agents caught on that the Red Dragonflight’s Aspect was on this continent, either? Granted, Wrathion himself had never actually seen Alexstrasza before -him not realizing who it was when she walked in was evidence for that alone – but still. It was the concept of it. He should have known about this before she waltzed into the room-…

Though then again, he’d been a bit… busy with his own problems.

“Seeking guidance,” Alexstrasza explained, without looking up from the Black Prince’s shoulder. “The Celestials are as timeless as myself, but their wisdom has not been heard in ten thousand years, and I found myself in need of their words.”

“You sought guidance.” Wrathion almost laughed at the thought of an Aspect who had been around since before the mortal races even drudged up from lesser creatures or were cursed with Flesh seeking… help was amusing.

Alexstrasza had been there to see the Titans with her own eyes, she was so old! Oh, he envied her.

Perhaps he could… ask her about them once this was over, he thought. He was excited just thinking about it. He wondered what they were like. He knew what their language was like. He knew he found their lovely little toys remarkable. He knew they were apparently obsessive about putting every single little security protocol on every little one of those toys, which was infuriating – but if he could know what they were actually like -

“I am not below asking for help when I need it,” Alexstrasza said, interrupting his racing, excited thoughts. “We cannot do everything on our own.” She finished healing his shoulder, and moved to his chest. “I am sure you know that.”

“I can come very close to doing things by myself,” Wrathion huffed.

“I suppose the young prince waiting outside is of little use to you, then.” Her orange eyes flickered to him, and she smiled a small smile. A knowing smile, Wrathion noted, with growing annoyance.

“He helps. Sometimes.”

“I see.”

Wrathion shifted in the bed, now thoroughly annoyed. “Enlighten me about why you needed help,” he said, hoping to change the subject.

“You must learn respect, young one,” Alexstrasza said, her patient voice stern and warning. “I wish to help you, but I will not be talked to like anything less than what I am.” She looked up from healing his chest.

Her eyes, once gentle, were intense and narrowed, warning him.

Wrathion felt himself deflate. The dragon’s shoulders sank, and he bit his lip; he felt very small in her ancient gaze.

“I sought help because I am unsure what to do with myself,” Alexstrasza said, once Wrathion had sunken back into the pillows at her gaze. She softened again; it was as if her scolding look hadn’t even been on her face. Wrathion relaxed. “We former Aspects have lost the powers that have been with us since the older ages. The Dragonflights break apart. Dragonkind finds itself lost. Even now, I do not know where the other Aspects have gone. We must learn to live in this mortal world.” She lifted one of her hands against her headband, and two gentle curls of smoke lengthened from the metal, stretching outwards, until they solidified into large, elegant horns of silver, banded with golden circlets. “I do not even wear my horns, nor my formal outfit, for they stand too noteworthy.”

Well, he thought. That was ridiculous. He almost said as much out loud, then remembered the scary scolding look she’d given him and thought better of it.

Wrathion frowned. What else was he supposed to say, then?

“… Ah,” he said, lamely.

It went quiet for a time. Alexstrasza healed his chest, then moved to his right arm.

“Where did you come by such injury?”

“An unfortunate turn of events.”

Alexstrasza didn’t say anything as her flames curled around Wrathion’s upper arm.

Her eyes rose. “I ask because this disease is passed only from dragon to dragon.”

“… Oh.”

The former Aspect looked at him questionably. He cleared his throat. He was not going to tell her about Sabellian. He did not want anyone to know he wasn’t the last black dragon other than those who already knew. He couldn’t allow that title to leave him, despite its falseness. The dragon clung to it.

“How odd,” Wrathion said, then smiled an innocent grin. Alexstrasza kept staring at him.

But Wrathion said nothing else. He looked back up at the ceiling quickly so he could avoid her look.

“Yes. Very odd,” Alexstrasza mused. The flames went near the cast, but did not burn it.

Uncomfortable silence stretched out between. Wrathion stared at the ceiling again.

So, he thought. Apparently Alexstrasza didn’t want to cage him.

Again he mused how this was all very better than he had expected.

His thoughts kept drifting to what Alexstrasza had said. So, she hadn’t wanted him destroyed – that was vaguely uplifting, though she had still wanted to control him.

And she’d ordered the experiments. Even if he would be dead now with his brothers and sisters, he wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive the pain they’d caused.

No – he would never truly forgive her. She’d been right; no words she could say could erase what had been done to him.

Why did he find the need to say something, then?

He frowned, annoyed at himself. He owed Alexstrasza nothing.

But the tense silent was overwhelmingly awkward. How much time had passed when they’d spoken? Twenty minutes? A half hour? More?

Wrathion looked at her. He locked his jaw, opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“I… appreciate Rhea’s sacrifice,” Wrathion forced himself to say when the words didn’t come at first. Alexstrasza paused, and her red-orange eyes locked on his crimson ones. “If that means anything to you.”

Alexstrasza stared at him. Wrathion’s throat tightened. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. He felt very stupid. Why had he said that -

“She cared deeply for your well-being. I am glad you do not hold your full hatred towards her, at the very least.”

The Black Prince startled as she spoke.

The two dragons looked at each other.

They looked away, then, Alexstrasza at her flames, Wrathion at the ceiling, but the tension in the room had shifted into a more comfortable silence.

The Black Prince wondered what had goaded him to say that. He sat there confused.

Maybe Anduin’s kind tendencies were rubbing off on him. He scoffed beneath his breath. Ridiculous.

Even so, the once-awkward silence had settled into a comfortable one with the exchange. Wrathion’s draconic heat was buzzing, familiar, against his skin. The sound of the waves crashing on the beach drifted from the open window, and Alexstrasza’s flames popped and crackled.

And as the healing process wore on, the Black Prince felt just a bit more relaxed in the company of the Life-binder.

—-

“The disease is gone.”

Wrathion grinned.

He was sitting upright in the bed, the blankets and some of the plush pillows pushed off to the side in a heap. Alexstrasza pulled her flames from Wrathion’s right leg, the last place that had remained the former Aspect had to heal as the hour had slugged on. With a gentle crackle, the flames in her palms evaporated; as they died, so did the shimmer from the heat in the air, and the room’s pressure leveled.

Wrathion felt wonderful.

The dragon stretched out his left arm – his right hurt, of course, still in its cast – and twisted it back and forth, then waved of his fingers. There was no shake, no quiver, no amount of cold in the flesh, and the only ache that he felt was the ache from his fight with Sabellian and from the possession of the Sha.

His grin widened.

“Do not move too fast,” Alexstrasza warned, as Wrathion turned in the bed and placed his bare feet on the floor, intending to stand. “You are still weak, though your energy has been returned.”

“I am fine,” Wrathion insisted. His voice was normal, back to its usual confident tenor. “Two feet on the floor won’t wound me.”

He stood – then his knees shook. Intense dreariness swept down from his head. He lurched forward with an undignified yelp. Alexstrasza stood just in time to hold him in place, her hands on his shoulder. She eased him back down into a sit, though he did resist much besides glaring at the wall.

His stomach twisted and contracted. It grumbled.

He was starving.

“That is why you are so weak,” Alexstrasza said with an amused smile. “But I am glad to have helped you, Black Prince. Life has found you again.”

“I expected nothing less, of course,” Wrathion replied. He stretched his left arm high above his head and groaned contently at the popping of his spine and the relief of his muscles. He held his cast arm close to his chest, and he rolled back his shoulders as he came down from the stretch.

“I would think your friends are worried for you.”

“What? Oh. Yes.”

Alexstrasza moved as if to open the door.

“Wait. Allow me.”

Alexstrasza opened her mouth – probably to point out he just tried standing, and couldn’t. Wrathion did not give her the chance. He quickly shifted into whelp form and hopped from the bed. It was much easier with four legs than two.

Satisfied with his cleverness, he trotted over to the door, though his gait was still taxed and the effort obvious. Wrathion shifted again as he got to the door, then leaned hard against the wall. He shifted around once, trying to make himself look more comfortable, then opened the door a crack.

Anduin was sitting against the wall, his legs outstretched with his cane laying against his knees; his head was bent backwards, and he stared up at the ceiling with lidded eyes. The two burly, armored guards still flanked the door, but Wrathion ignored them.

“Anduin Wrynn,” Wrathion cooed, smirking. “You can come back inside.”

Anduin jumped and his head snapped back forward. His blue eyes focused on Wrathion, momentarily confused – then a grin lit up his face. The prince grabbed his cane from his knees, and waved off the two guards who went to help him, standing on his own. Wrathion took his hand off the door. He left it open as he leaned his back on the wall to keep himself upright. How did Anduin deal with the problem of standing upright constantly?

“Excuse me,” Anduin said beyond the door, probably to the guards, then eased through the crack Wrathion had left open and closed it behind him.

Anduin saw Wrathion against the wall and his grin widened. “You look – better!”

“Your eyesight is as sharp as always, prince - though that’s not saying very much.”

Anduin didn’t rise to the tease. He looked over Wrathion; a low hmm hummed in the back of the prince’s throat.

Anduin outstretched his hand and placed it against the dragon’s neck. His grin returned.

“Much better,” Anduin said. Wrathion’s smirk widened. He was very pleased with the attention. Anduin’s hand didn’t come off of his neck.

“He will still need to rest,” Alexstrasza said behind them. Anduin blushed and snatched his hand away from Wrathion, then turned to face her. How quick he was to compose himself, Wrathion noted, as he had noted many times before.

“Yes, and I’m starving.” His knees were starting to shake from holding his tired body up so long, even though he was leaning against the wall.

Anduin noticed. “Here. Let’s get you back in bed and I’ll have some food sent over.”

The prince slipped his arm around the dragon’s waist and hauled him from the wall. Wrathion got his balance and allowed Anduin to walk him back the brief steps to the bed. He sat down hard, the bed squeaking.

Anduin leaned forward. Their faces were close; the blond prince smiled. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispered.

“As am I, dear prince.”

Anduin stood straight again and turned to Alexstrasza. “Thank you.”

The former Aspect nodded. “I am glad to have helped how I could.” Her eyes drifted to Wrathion. “I hope you remember what I told you, Black Prince.”

As if he could somehow forget.

But Wrathion nodded, hiding back the sarcastic comment that threatened to fall from his mouth; he didn’t want Alexstrasza to scold him like a child again, as she had before, and he did not wish for that to happen in front of Anduin.

Wrathion had had enough shame and embarrassment to last the rest of his lifetime in this passed week. He didn’t need anymore.

The dragons looked at each other silently. Alexstrasza bowed her head to him. Wrathion may have known much less than he liked about dragon culture, but he knew that that was a symbol of respect.

He hesitated – but he, too, bowed his head, his thick black hair falling against his eyes and forehead before he straightened back up.

They had nothing left to say to one another. Alexstrasza smiled, and Wrathion just stared at her, his face a mask.

Alexstrasza nodded to Anduin, but not with the bowing of her head.

And, just like that, with no goodbyes, she turned and disappeared beyond the door.

Anduin looked confused.

“Did I upset her?”

“Dragons aren’t very good at the normal mortal charms of hellos and goodbyes. Except me, of course.”

Anduin raised a brow. “Of course.”

“Now, about that food -”

“Wait. I’ll be right back.”

“I didn’t even say what I wanted. I’d like three mushan stea-”

“I’m not getting you food. Just – stay there.”

Anduin grabbed his cane and left the room so quickly that Wrathion didn’t even have time to ask where he was going.

He rolled his eyes. Mortals were so strange.

“You are unharmed, My Prince.”

Wrathion glanced over as Left shimmered into existence on the opposite end of the room. He grinned.

“So I am.”

“I take it Alexstrasza was not as hostile as you believed?”

The Black Prince went to run his right hand through his unruly hair, recalled it was broken and, annoyed with the inconvenience, used his left to push the bangs out of his face, though they fell back against his eyebrows anyway.

“She was – fine enough,” Wrathion mumbled. “I believe we came to an… understanding of sorts.”

Wrathion felt a bit giddy. He was healed, he had faced the leader of the Red Dragonflight, and -

He’d forgotten to ask Alexstrasza about the Titans.

Wrathion made a groaning whine and fell back against the bed, glaring at the ceiling.

—-

Nasandria was exhausted.

The last day had been strenuous on her; her reconnaissance flight had shown that the Badlands was larger than she previously anticipated, and flying the perimeter of it had taken up most of the first day. Frustrated with the size, unable to answer her doubts of how she was going to find anything in this barren place, she’d continued on anyway once arriving back at her starting place, though had stayed away so she wouldn’t be able to see the bones.

And, with her reconnaissance over, she’d begun to search.

The drake had searched through the ruined town on the hill near the dragon skeletons, and had found it to be abandoned, though littered with the insignias of the Horde -… but she had found nothing else of interest concerning the Black Prince, besides other bones of centaur-like dragonkin, with the four legs of dragons but the torsos of something vaguely human, ending with a dragon head. Dragonspawn, she recalled, though remembered little about them.

But she’d pressed on, despite that lesser discovery. Like the bones of Wrathion’s mother, they answered nothing, and only served to show that much death had happened here.

But mile after mile of searching, flying low to the ground, the dirt racing beneath her as the sun sank lower, she’d grown increasingly frustrated. Finding the skeletons had been a lucky, if not macabre, start; but now, in this desert, how was she supposed to find the key to Wrathion’s lack of corruption?

And so the first day had come to a close with bitter frustration, even though she searched deep into the night and had tired herself in the process.

But no magic clue had appeared, and no mystical arrow pointing her in the right direction. Her flight was aimless, and her search fruitless.

What was she supposed to do? Dig in the sand? Put her snout to the dirt like a hound and search every line of sand, every crack of rock?

So, bitter, she’d fallen asleep late, giving up that day’s search, and had woken late, not very happy she’d only covered not even a quarter of the Badlands in her close search the day before.

At least, Nasandria thought, she was looking forward to one thing today. The devastated Horde town had been one place of interest, and during her overview flight, she’d tucked in the back of her mind other places besides those ruins that seemed promising, such as the goblin town up on top of one of the higher mountains.

Because complain all she liked about the futility of her search, it was easy to spot things on the flat, monochromatic ground.

At least, on most of the Badlands’ ground. She flapped her wings. Now she flew over the one place that had taken her by surprise in her first flight and one place she wouldn’t be searching.

Below her, where it ran right through the center of the Badlands, was an awesome scar of black, burnt earth; the sides of the long ditch, which stretched on for miles, swept up in droves of plated earth, resembling frozen waves. In the deepest point of the trench, angered rock elementals tumbled to and fro, and thin veins of lava scored across the ground. Though it was the early afternoon, and the sun was high, a perpetual smog encompassed the atmosphere of the scar and blocked out the light.

Nasandria glanced down at it now as she made her way across. The heat that emanated upwards was comforting to her aching muscles and bitter thoughts.

It certainly was out of place in this desolate landscape, as were the flat, black mountains she had seen in the distance on her arrival here, which ended up flanking this enormous trench. She wondered what had caused it -… perhaps her grandfather’s cataclysm.

The smoggy haze began to clear as she made her way passed, and the warm sun was soon bright against her dark scales. The earth’s trench became distant behind her.

She wished she could have stayed there longer – it reminded her of the pleasantness of the Gorge – but she had work to do, however futile it was.

Nasandria lilted down, her wings folding only just, to get closer to the ground. A small group of hills grew up closer as she made her way through the bumpy plains, tilting back and forth with ease to avoid the cacti and bony trees that protruded portly from the rock.

She flew for a long, quiet five minutes before her frustration, which had ebbed back from the scar, began to flow into the front of her mind again, sour. Shouldn’t she have found the place by now? It’d been small from above, but surely she should have seen it by now.

Nasandria rounded the black flat mountain, flying hard -

And a blur of metal appeared in front of her around the curve.

With a surprised shriek, she shot her claws out and managed just in time to stop her body from completely ramming into the contraption. Her talons found purchase on the hot metal, and the device lashed forward hard at the impact of the drake with a creak. Nasandria waved her wings wildly, trying to find her balance as it swayed back and forth before stilling.

She looked down, scowling. It was a turret of some kind - a cannon. Its many layers of rust and disuse was sure evidence for its growing age.

It groaned again, louder, insistent. The drake jumped off before the cannon collapsed in a heap of metal junk.

Nasandria shook out her front paws, which had sustained the brute of the impact and stung numbly because of it, and glared at the pile while the dust settled about it. She checked to make sure the bag at her neck was unharmed; it was fine.

What had a cannon been doing in the middle of this valley, flanked only by small mountains? Nasandria looked around, her mood fouler, as she placed her paws back down. Mortals were very -

“Oh!”

Up ahead, shoved up against the side of the hill she’d just flown around, was the remains of a small camp – just the one she’d been looking for.

Nasandria smiled brightly, smoke curling from her nostrils, and made her way over.

She wished she’d re-discovered it differently, of course, rather than pummeling herself into a turret, but…

The drake rounded around a tiny ditch, fenced off with rotting rope, before growing closer to the camp.

It was less remarkable up close. Three cloth tents sat pitched in a semi-circle, though all three were collapsed, shrunken in on themselves, save for the largest one, whose front was held up by a petrified, stubborn piece of wood; all of the tents’ cloth was eaten away by the elements and bleached by the sun. Closest to Nasandria was a pathetic cloth overhead which tilted, missing one of its wooden spokes, and leaned forward like a kneeling horse. Underneath the overhand was an overturned table, scrap metal, and other assorted things the drake couldn’t quite make out, halfway hidden beneath collected dirt.

Nasandria’s mood worsened again. It’d looked promising from up above, but on the ground, it was just as abandoned as the Horde outpost at been – but what had she expected, really? This whole place seemed abandoned; the only mortals she’d seen were the goblins in their town on the mountain.

No matter, though. Every place could be something worth looking at. Maybe it would take a while, but she would find what had cured the Black Prince, even if it took too long for her liking.

She shifted into mortal form; her dragon form was too large to maneuver around in the small encampment. Nasandria rolled her shoulders back, her spine popping gratifyingly, before putting her thick black hair up.

She went under the overhead, first, and, leaning, brushed aside the dust from the hidden objects. They were nothing – just a hidden lantern, the remains of a ruined flag, some bits of curling gears and screws.

Nasandria straightened and crossed her arms. She swept her foot out, brushing up the dirt slowly; the lantern’s delicate glass shattered at the gentle pressure of her heel. The drake rolled her eyes. Nothing beneath here.

She ducked and went out from underneath it into the center of the camp. Nasandria wondered why all of this hadn’t been packed up, or why the items hadn’t been stowed away. The people who had been here must have left in a hurry.

Three more tents to look through. Nasandria ground her teeth.

She searched the first two slowly, pulling up the collapsed, rotting cloth that fell away like wet paper in her hands. The minutes rolled by, the sun rising, as she looked, eyes focused and alert to slits. She swept at the dirt inside, peered into the cracks hidden by the cloth – she even overturned the cloth itself, as if she might find something woven into the fabric.

But the first two tents proved fruitless.

Grumbling, she let go of the heavy cloth of the second tent in her hands and watched it fall, limp, to the ground. Dust bloomed up underneath it.

“One more tent,” she murmured to herself, turning. “Then perhaps I can do something useful and worth doing instead of this stupid search like hunt -”

Something cracked softly beneath her feet. She stopped and looked down, head tilting.

There was only the ground. She frowned. What had she stepped on?

She tilted her foot and nudged back at the dirt with the tip of her black boot. There was something smooth there, something not just part of the ground; as she gently brushed the dirt away, a dark grey appeared amongst the red, spotted -

Nasandria narrowed her eyes. Her foot stopped.

She would recognize that color and pattern anywhere.

The drake knelt immediately, fast but careful not to crush anything with her knees, and bent over what she’d uncovered. Delicately, with the very tips of her hands, she smoothed out the remaining dirt from the object and slid it from underneath the fine dirt.

It was the remains of a thin shell. She turned it over in her hands – and jumped. On the inner side, where there should have been a fiery red, was instead a thick, oozing black. She almost dropped it when she realized it wasn’t just the color – it was an entire layer of unhealthy goop, frozen.

The drake swallowed. She was vaguely reminded of the blackness that had seeped from Talsian’s mouth.

She touched it with the tip of her claw, and found it to be squishy, akin in feeling to the soft underbellies of the crust bursters back on Blade’s Edge. She pulled her hand away, and part of the ooze slunk back from the egg shell, clinging to her finger.

Disgusted, she dropped the egg shell and slid her hand over the ground, the coarseness ridding her of the ooze.

Nasandria stared at the egg shell. The cold bile she’d felt upon seeing the skeletons on her first day was threatening to tickle at the back of her throat. That was a black dragon’s egg, but what was… that ooze?

She glanced at where she’d pulled the fragment from.

What else was here?

Her heart hammering, she began brushing at the ground again, her movements careful but quick. Something in the back of her mind was curling backwards, as if it didn’t want her to continue, didn’t want her to see anymore – but she had to. She’d found something. What it meant, she didn’t know, but -

Her thumb brushed over something harder than the loose sand. Nasandria snapped her eyes in the direction and hurriedly unfolded the dirt there.

Dark grey, tiny claws appeared beneath her hands. She hesitated for a mere moment – but continued soon after. Bit after bit the dirt and sand was brushed aside and soon revealed a small skeleton that had been hidden right there in the ground.

Nasandria stared at it, her hands hovering. This hatchling was smaller than the ones she’d seen by Wrathion’s broodmother.

But that wasn’t what she was staring at. What she was staring at was how it had been ripped apart.

An entire wing was gone. A forearm had been ripped off. One of the hind leg’s feet was gone as well, and half of the tail, too. A handful of the ribs had been carefully plucked away, and even some of the spikes along the spine were missing. Other miscellaneous bones were absent: half of the hip, a chunk of vertebrae from the spine, some of the teeth and the little talons, and even the end of one of the horns.

And what remained was a hapless pile of bones that still managed to look like a whelp, if not a desecrated one – and along the remaining bones was the same thick, petrified ooze that had been on the shell.

Nasandria stared at it. The cold bile in her throat was gripping onto the back of her tongue now.

She took a deep breath to steady herself, willing back the air in her lungs to sweep out the spots that were beginning to prickle at the back of her eyes out with her exhale. It worked, somewhat, but her hands were shaking.

Gently, she brushed back the ooze from where the forearm had been ripped off, revealing the cut underneath. The drake squinted. It had not been ripped off, it seemed – it looked like it’d be seared off. The cut at the elbow was precise, surgical – and where it had been cut was a gentle, cauterizing scorch mark of dull black-red.

Nasandria let go and wiped the ooze from her fingers again, mechanically.

What was she seeing?

Swallowing hard, breathing deeply once again, she glanced back at the demented egg shell, then back at the whelp. The whelp was not freshly hatched, and so couldn’t belong to the egg shell. They were two different things.

Where had the rest of the whelp’s limbs gone? Why were they… burnt off?

Suddenly she wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to know. She rose to her feet, her knees trembling, the dirt sticking to her leather pants. The Red Dragonflight was not looking so gentle and great, anymore.

Her hands drifted to her satchel at her waist-… but dropped again. She’d only found more clues, not an answer, and Sabellian probably wouldn’t want to know anything besides an answer. She could already hear him chiding her.

She rubbed her arm. Her eyes had not left the whelp or the egg shell.

Was this… cure really worth it, if this was connected to Wrathion at all?

Her eyes tore up from it. It had to be. What else could it -?

Nasandria narrowed her eyes. Up ahead, gently blurred from the sun’s reflection on the ground, was an enormous ditch, sloping inward from the northern side. The drake leaned forward, standing on the tips of her toes, to see what the ground was hiding. It looked to be some sort of huge marble slab, decayed by age - but she could see nothing else.

She looked at the whelp and egg again, then back up.

Something hidden in the ground – that seemed to be a recurring theme in her search.

More wary than excited at the next clue, she bent and brushed the dirt back over the pile of bones and the egg shell, hiding them away again.

She shifted into drake form and made her way to the excavated hideaway.

—-

“Prince Anduin, return to your room.”

Anduin glanced back at the soldier at his door.

“I won’t be going downstairs. I only need to speak with the visitor that just left.”

From the corner of his eye, down the hallway, he could just make out the tall, lithe form of Alexstrasza; her silken robe shimmered as her gait slowed to a stop, and her head turned back to glance at the prince, her hands clasped in front of her.

Both guards looked over at the dragon, then at Anduin. The one who had spoken grunted, the gave a quick nod.

“Make it quick.”

“Thank you.”

He turned, vaguely annoyed at the guards. The hallway before him was, thankfully, in better condition than it had been the day before. While the scorch marks remained, burned across like a comet against the left wall, the dent marks and the complete hole through the stone had been quickly patched.

The tapping of his cane was loud against the quiet; the prince couldn’t even hear the beach because of the thick stone walls. Alexstrasza watched for a moment, still and regal, reminding Anduin of the ancient Kaldorei statues, twisted to grow into the bark of the great trees, he’d seen in Darnassus.

The dragon moved towards him. Anduin stopped, relieved he didn’t have to limp the entire way over. They met in the center of the patched hallway. Alexstrasza’s hands remained folded in front of her, hidden by the long, open sleeves that trailed elegantly down in excess red silk. The stitched golden serpents on her robe had their eyes on Anduin.

Anduin glanced around her at the other duo of guards at the stairs, then back at the two at his door. They all stared straight ahead, but he knew they were watching and listening.

The prince looked back up at Alexstrasza; he almost had to crane his neck to meet her orange eyes. They regarded him calmly, without the slightest hint of impatience.

Anduin found himself just… staring at her for a moment. He’d met other ancient beings – the Celestials – and individuals of older races – Velen – but even then he felt awed at the sudden realization of just how ancient Alexstrasza was. Civilizations had lifted and died in front of the eyes that watched him now.

Anduin cleared his throat and shook out his shoulders. He could think about the gravity of their meeting later, when things were less important.

“I wanted to thank you again for healing Wrathion,” the prince said. His voice was low, understandable enough to be heard but quiet enough so that the guards couldn’t hear. “I know he can be… difficult, but I’m sure he appreciates it too.” He knew Wrathion well enough to know he hardly said “thank you” unless it was in jest.

Alexstrasza bent her head in a gentle nod. “I was glad to.” Her eyes searched Anduin’s. She wasn’t smiling, but she didn’t look unkind. “But I am sure you did not come after me if it were just for that.”

Anduin nodded. He glanced down as he thought how to word his thoughts, and also trying to brush away the feeling Wrathion was going to like having this information shared.

The prince glanced back up. “I don’t suppose Wrathion shared how he got those wounds.”

Alexstrasza shook her head.

Anduin shifted his weight once; his eyes didn’t leave Alexstrasza’s. All he had to do was say the words – but why was he hesitating so much? He frowned at himself, took a deep breath, and spoke.

“Dragons from Outland came and tried to kill him,” Anduin explained, his voice raising in pitch just the slightest amount. Alexstrasza tilted her head in interest. “They were Black Dragons, though. They weren’t nether drakes.”

Alexstrasza stared. Anduin waited for her to flinch, or to grimace, or to growl, or – well, something.

But the expression on her face didn’t even move.

“… Isn’t that… I don’t know, surprising?” Anduin asked when Alexstrasza didn’t say anything. This was confusing. Alexstrasza’s eyes flickered. “They weren’t just drakes. The one who tried to kill Wrathion is a son of Deathwing.”

Alexstrasza face finally twitched into motion, like she’d previously been in a trance. Her thin brows tilted downwards, and she frowned, but only just.

“They are from Outland,” she repeated. Anduin nodded.

Why he did have the suspicion she already knew this?

Her eyes looked off to the side, contemplative in their look.

“I thought you’d be more taken aback,” Anduin admitted. Alexstrasza didn’t smile. “Doesn’t everyone think Wrathion’s the last black dragon?”

The former Aspect nodded. “We did. However -” Her eyes drifted back to Anduin. “It is strange, about Life. When one tries to destroy all traces of it, it reappears, like the flower in the soot of a burned forest, or like the phoenix from the ashes.” She sighed. She sounded very tired.

“You knew Wrathion wasn’t the only one,” Anduin said.

“I had my suspicions.” She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “Try as we might to annihilate Deathwing’s corrupt race – for their good, and for Azeroth’s good – I knew that even we could not see everything; we could not see in all the hiding places of the world.” Her smile fell. “I had hoped my suspicions were wrong, but I have seen many things to know history would repeat itself. Things that are thought to be dead have risen again. When the last deer is hunted from the forest, the wise hunter knows that, at one point, the deer will return. Life is the strongest force in our world, young one, and does not give up easily. It is unwise for those who underestimate it.”

Absurdly, Anduin’s immediate thought was that of the Lich King, who had be conquered by the living in his strive to end Life itself. He nodded. He knew as much.

“But now you have confirmed my suspicions.” She nodded to herself. “Who is this son of Deathwing?”

“His name is Sabellian.”

Her eyes lit with recognition. “He is one of Deathwing’s eldest.”

“You know him?”

“I do not know him personally, but I have heard his name, and the ugly history that follows him.”

Anduin bit the inside of his cheek. Now came the hardest part to explain.

“I – well, I think the Old Gods have forgotten about him.”

Alexstrasza eyed Anduin oddly; now she looked caught off guard.

“We – Left and I, the orc – rescued Wrathion from Kun-lai. I saw Sabellian. He didn’t seem insane.” He remember the eyes, orange and angry, but level, not shattered like the gaze of Onyxia.

Alexstrasza’s gaze was sharp. He felt uncomfortable.

“I don’t know how he is, but he’s uncorrupted. At least for now. But I’m telling you all of this because we really need your help.”

Because Sabellian was still out there in Pandaria somewhere. Anduin was honestly surprised they hadn’t seen him again; what could he possibly be doing? Of the brief time he’d seen Sabellian, he doubted that this son of Deathwing would give up so easily. At any singular moment, Sabellian could attack; Anduin was comforted by the fact they were in an enormous Alliance fort, guarded by all the soliders and all the Alliance champions they could ever hope for, but if they had an Aspect – even a former one – to help…

“I know he’s going to come back for Wrathion -”

“I cannot help you.”

Anduin blinked. He furrowed his brows in confusion. “What?”

Alexstrasza, for the first time, looked distant. “I was once a Guardian of Life, but I am no longer. It is not my place anymore to meddle in the affairs of dragons that are not my own kind.”

Anduin stared at her. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“But you just saved Wrathion’s life -”

“Because it was my flight who put him through such torment, and I am glad that I had the chance to help him in some way.” She shook her head. “But with this, I cannot help.”

“So just because you lost your powers, you can’t help anyone?” Anduin’s voice has risen; he didn’t notice. The prince tried not to glare, but this was – this was just… how could Alexstrasza not do anything? She and the other Aspects had battled Deathwing, had been the ones to declare war on the Black Dragonflight during the start of the Cataclysm. Why couldn’t she help with this? Because she just wasn’t the Guardian of Life anymore?

Alexstrasza watched him with a leveled glance. “You do not understand the extent of the powers we had, young one. As the Guardian of Life, with my powers, it was my duty to maintain the Black Dragonflight, to stop its destruction, as it was my duty to help my other kin that were not of my own Flight. Yet my powers are gone now, and with it, all the duties I ever had.”

Anduin drew himself upright. “I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make any sense. Maybe your powers made who you were, but can’t just… give up on everything because of that.”

“You are unknowing of how our powers truly defined us; you see things through a mortal’s perspective. Dragonkind is different now after the Cataclysm. We cannot guard the world anymore and must learn to live in a mortals’ world.” Even though Anduin was being borderline argumentative with the former Aspect, the red dragon’s tone was as patient as ever.

“I don’t think Wrathion knows that,” Anduin said, a bit too snappily.

Alexstrasza’s eyes flickered behind Anduin’s shoulder to the room the Black Prince was in before they looked back to the prince. She smiled a humorless smile. “No. But he is very different than the rest of us.”

“Kalec is helping Jaina,” Anduin pointed out. His anger was starting to deflate into desperation.

“Kalecgos was not an Aspect for as long as the remaining three of us. I am glad some dragons are finding their place among helping mortals, but it is different for my sister, Nozdormu, and myself.”

Anduin knew, then, he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Alexstrasza. His shoulders sagged; he sighed, and nodded his defeat. Sour disappointment curled in his chest.

“Alright. I’m sorry to have questioned you. But -” he rose his eyes to her again. “Maybe you should look at the loss of your powers through a ‘mortal’s perspective,’” he said with a vague smile. “… If you’re going to live in a mortals’ world, as you said. Because I think this world will need a bit more protecting soon.”

Alexstrasza studied him.

“You are very special, Anduin Wrynn,” Alexstrasza said after a moment’s silence. Her eyes drifted back to the door, then at the prince once again. “You have a very wise soul.”

Anduin only looked back at her.

“I am sorry I cannot help your friend anymore than I already have. But I will think on what you said.” She placed her hands on his shoulders; her radiant heat, somehow different that Wrathion’s, curled against his blue cloth and into his muscles, comforting. “I wish you luck. Truly.”

Her hands fell, as did the comfort that they offered. Anduin bowed his head to her, and the former Aspect did the same.

Anduin watched her go.

—-

Nasandria stood in front of the large marble archway.

She was flanked by dull jade pillars; the entire building that stood before her was half-way hidden by accumulated sand and dirt, rising up like a tide and sweeping down to reveal the entrance way she stood before now. Large broken slabs of the marble were littered behind her, etched with designs long worn away by age.

But Nasandria stared ahead, wary.

If this didn’t have something to do with the Titans, she wasn’t sure what would, here in this lonely landscape.

She curled her hands into fists then relaxed them again, her fingers stretching out. The cold hadn’t left her since she had gone from the abandoned encampment with the shell and the whelp. She tried to ignore it. She couldn’t be weak now; she had a job to do, especially now that she might be about to uncover something.

Nasandria, carefully, made her way inside. The sun’s glare vanished as the drake, in her human form, walked into the hall, sloping down the dirt until it finally disappeared to reveal stone patterned tiles on the floor. Broken pottery lay shattered in the corners of the small entrance room. The ceiling was high. Inside, it was dark, lit only by the dying light of the sun behind her.

Nasandria paused. The ancientness of this place – there was a tug deep in the center of her chest. She shook her shoulders back and tried to brush away the feeling. It was eerily familiar, and the sense of mightiness was inherent in the vaulted ceiling, the great pillars…

And in the huge red golem that stood in front of her, just passed the second archway that led into the central chamber.

Nasandria flexed her hands, cautious, and went inside the main room, her eyes not leaving the golem. But it looked inactive, standing giant but quiet, its crimson surface dented with shattered impact marks and scratches and bruises, its arms outstretched in front, its ugly molded face glaring at nothing.

Her back was slightly hunched as she rounded around it. She poked it. It didn’t move.

Something skittered passed her feet. She startled and rounded, baring her teeth -

The little scarab scurried away and hid beneath a crack in the floor.

Nasandria growled, annoyed, and relaxed again. She put her hands on her hips and looked around.

A quarter of the western wall had been caved in; dirt and sand had poured through, overturning pottery and breaking down pillars. An archway opened up to another separate room to her right; she decided to search that after she was done with this main hall.

Nasandria moved down the two steps, making her way to the northern end of the room. Behind the red golem was a jade one, their backs facing one another; like the red giant, it was scarred with battle marks. Half of its stone face was missing.

Runes were at the bottom of the jade golem’s platform. Nasandria tilted her head. They were beautiful to look at, lilting but authoritative in their bold strokes – the language of the Titans.

And she could understand them.

The runes seemed to rearrange in her head, becoming as clear as any spoken word: The Warden.

She straightened. Wardens guarded things.

Nasandria looked around again. This was looking more hopeful. Her wariness began to give way at the anxiousness prickling at the back of her neck as her heart quickened.

Her eyes stopped. In front of the the Warden, a fine layer of dust on its flat top, was a large stone chest.

Nasandria went to it quickly, her boots stomping muffled on the stone floor; the silent sound echoed in the silent, forgotten building.

She brushed the dust from the top. More runes appeared when the dust had been cleared.

The Eye of the Watchers, they read.

Excited, Nasandria went to open it, her clawed hands finding purchase beneath the mouth of the chest.

She heaved it upwards – or at least tried to. It wouldn’t budge.

Scowling, she tried again, placing her heels hard on the ground for leverage. Her shoulder shook as she pushed again, and her teeth bared-… but still the chest didn’t open. It didn’t even move an inch, or even a centimeter.

Nasandria hissed and dropped her hands, her shoulders and upper arms quivering slightly from the strain. She could almost feel the Warden’s eyes on her back, mocking her.

She wasn’t about to have come this far only to have some stupid Titan chest bar her from finding her family’s cure, if this was even it at all.

Nasandria knelt. Her hands traveled, searching, around the chest, as her eyes raked over its surface. It was lightly decorated with blue and gold swirls, but she ignored the nice decoration in favor of the other runes she found etched, nearly worn away by time, in the stone.

She squinted hard, trying to understand them with their damage. The scuttling of the scarabs she’d seen earlier scratched around her in the quiet, ancient room.

Eye of th———-

—- Ward——-Senti—-

Eona——activat——

Protocol: Reor——io-

Nasandria hissed through her pointed teeth. The runes might be proving to be too damaged to make sense out of.

Her fingers drifted to the mouth of the chest again. There, almost hidden in the shadow of the upper lid, was a small rectangular jade label, crusted over with grime.

Nasandria scrubbed the grime away. Runes revealed themselves.

Open.

“Open?” Nasandria repeated, disbelieving. “Yes, I tried to open you, you stupid thing! What kind of rune is that? ‘Open!’” She snorted. “That’s not much help.”

The chest sat idly at her yelling. The drake hissed again and straightened from her kneel.

“Well, go on. Open.”

It sat silent.

She tapped her foot, crossing her arms. Nasandria flicked her eyes back down at where the rune “open” had been. An idea sprang.

“O-..pen.” The Titan language was awkward on her tongue as she repeated the rune’s word, but strangely familiar, just like the same feeling she’d had upon entering this old place. How she could even understand the language, or even speak it, made little sense to her, but she was glad for the help.

Something shuddered behind her. She turned, startled.

The Warden was moving – but hardly. It’s outstretched arms were shaking; green pebbles fell from the hinges at its shoulders, and its blocked head leaned forward against its torso. Its knees were locked. It was trying hard to move; its whole body was shuddering and shrieking with the unpleasant sound of rock sliding against rock.

Nasandria backed up a step, fire curling into one of her hands. The chest was at her back.

The Warden took a step forward, reaching out his arms. Rocks fell from the ceiling, but missed Nasandria by a good five feet. They fell to the floor with a clamorous banging.

But the Warden, after its first step, could not move forward again. It lurched, awkward, straining -

And then collapsed into a broken heap.

The red golem behind it shuddered once, then went still. It did not move otherwise.

Nasandria grinned as the echoes of the Warden’s collapse died against the walls. She thanked whoever had given the golems their previous battle scars and breakage, which was apparently too much for them to fight a second time.

The chest rumbled at her back. She turned to face it, surprised.

With a groan, the heavy lid opened. Dust plumed back as it slid off, falling down the back.

The drake’s breath shook. She steadied herself – or at least tried to, despite her heart’s rapid beating – and looked inside.

Resting on a velvet pillow, that looked untouched by time, was a golden sphere. It was shiny and bright, without the slightest marring to is smooth surface.

Nasandria frowned. This wasn’t what she’d been expecting.

She picked it up anyway, holding it in both hands. It was slightly heavier than it appeared, but the drake could hold it with ease.

Nasandria turned it around, looking for something of value. Was this what Wrathion had whimpered about? She frowned deeper, disappointed. How had a golden sphere fixed him, if this was what had fixed him at all? Her thoughts traveled to the whelp and the egg shell. How did those fit into this puzzle? And where did the Red Dragonflight, for that matter?

One of Nasandria’s fingers brushed against the surface, and something gave way underneath her touch – like a button.

She grinned. Nasandria retraced her finger’s path and found the button again. It was seamlessly integrated into the smooth surface, and so was difficult to see. Finding it again, she pushed it, excited, her wariness about the whelp and egg gone.

It sprung to life in her hands. A glow emanated from the sphere, and it lifted, hovering, into the air. She watched, fascinated, as it spun slowly; the glow started to reshape itself, become linear and patterned, creating a delicate, cage-like shape that surrounded the golden artifact. It began to hum, and the surface of the sphere lit up with spotlights of white; the gold turned into a dark bronze.

“Boot-up protocol completed.”

The mechanical voice emitted from the device, emotionless. Nasandria gawked at it.

She stared at it for a solid, quiet five seconds before she shook her head hard to snap her focus back. Her chest was taut with anticipation.

It floated in front of her, as if it was waiting for her to say something.

“Uhm – continue?”

It hummed once, louder.

“Scanning for objective.”

A thin, wide light shot from the orb. It rotated around once, searching the room, before it fell on Nasandria. The beam swept up and down her body, leaving vaguely uncomfortable tingles where it landed.

The light shut off abruptly. Nasandria blinked.

“Anomaly detected.”

The drake scowled. “What does that -”

“Probable source: Azerothian Old God.”

Nasandria’s words fell down her throat. Oh.

She shifted uncomfortably. Why did she feel… surprised at the device’s words? Her family was cursed -… except that brat, of course. A growl rumbled at the back of her mouth.

Nasandria paused, then.

If it detected her corruption – could it get rid of it?

Was this little globe what had cured the Black Prince?

Her mouth went dry; her pupils dilated to slits.

“I found it,” she muttered. The beginnings of a disbelieving grin twitched at the side of her mouth. “I found it.”

The machine beeped once, then resumed its hum. “Error: lack of viable material. Objective unable to be processed. Continue with sub-protocol?”

It was asking her.

Nasandria tilted her head. What did ‘lack of viable material’ mean? Her initial excitement dulled in her chest, but only slightly.

“Yes, go ahead. Continue… sub-protocol.”

“Warning: attempting to excise anomaly may result in organism malfunction. Error: lack of viable material. User response activated. Continuing…”

Nasandria narrowed her eyes. ‘Organism malfunction?’

The globe gently spun closer to her. She swallowed hard, torn between wanting to turn it off and waiting to see what it did.

If it could cure her, too, then…

The beam that had looked her over appeared again, and flickered up her once more before disappearing.

“Attempting to excise anomaly…”

Nothing happened. Nasandria frowned. The seconds ticked by, and the sphere only hummed in front of her.

The hum started to become louder just as Nasandria began to doubt. The drake braced herself. Her arm began to cramp from the rush of hot nervousness that swept up her body, starting from the tips of her toes to the backs of her eyes, and she shook it out.

An odd heavy feeling scrounged up in her body. She, suddenly, felt as if she was carrying a heavy weight on the tips of her skin, like a hefty oil had been poured along her. Her muscles began to contact and spasm, all of their own accord, and the sludge-like feeling began to coalesce in her left arm, the arm that had begun to cramp. She shook it out again, unnerved.

Her left arm continued to cramp, though. She glanced at it, confused. That wasn’t from nerves. It began to become painful, right at the joint of the elbow.

And in that mere second the pain was not just from the cramping – it escalated into a searing, hot anguish.

Nasandria cried out and struck her arm away from her. The hum of the Eye of the Watchers only became louder, and louder, and the pain continued to become hotter and angrier.

The whelp – how its body parts had been seared off -

Nasandria understood then – but too late to tell the Eye to stop.

Terrible pain sliced across Nasandria’s elbow, stinging and aflame. The drake shrieked and tore herself back, stumbling behind herself, her eyes ablur with spots of white as the pain engulfed her.

She came to mere seconds later, her head ringing with the agony, her eyes and mouth wide – and saw that her left forearm had not moved with her. It hovered, bodiless, in the air for a moment before crumpling to the ground. Black ooze secreted from the skin’s pours, ooze like those on the whelp’s remains and the egg shell.

Nasandria stared at it. Her head – her head was ringing. She began to shake. Was that – was that her arm?

She glanced down at her left elbow – and saw her left forearm was gone. No blood dripped from the place the Eye of the Watchers had torn her forearm off, only a cauterized stump.

Nasandria lifted her upper arm up, then down, then up, expecting to see the forearm appear. But it didn’t. Her brain finally connected.

Her arm had just been ripped off, and it was laying right there on the floor.

That was her arm.

It had sliced her arm off.

The ringing in her head was a roar now as the shock wore off and the agony at her elbow vaulted up, shooting up the remainder of her arm and clutching to her shoulder, her chest, gripping with stinging claws. She screamed.

“Anomaly excised. Repeating sub-protocol…”

“No! Stop!” She shrieked, panicked, her head still whirling with pain, the place where her arm had just been sliced in two burning. The cold bile rose in her throat, and she nearly vomited.

The same cramping sensation began to layer at her chest.

“STOP! Please!”

Her voice was on the verge of tears.

But the cramping stopped. The loud hum of the Eye of the Watchers dimmed.

“Sub-protocol paused. Warning: anomaly still detected in life-form.”

The drake hardly heard. She was still looking at the cauterized stump. Her head kept ringing. Her right hand hovered over the open elbow. Her whole body shook. Her severed arm lay in a pile of sickly black ooze in front of her.

She screamed again, and it echoed in a million voices against the ancient walls.


	11. Chapter 11

Samia squinted down at Alacian, who sat before her. He was quivering, wings held loose at his sides, and his head strained to keep upright.

They were outside, near the rise that led up into the pale green forests that the Cenarion Expedition once inhabited and long-since abandoned. Below was the valley that the ogres of Gruul had lived in years ago, but where only the packs of raptors and direwolves roamed when the black dragons were not out and about hunting.

But the black dragons were out, and the animals, smart, were nowhere to be seen.

Samia took a claw and propped the whelp’s head up, leaning in her snout to take a closer look. He hiccuped and stared at her with glassy eyes. His scales were cool underneath her paw.

“You should have come to me earlier,” Samia admonished as she let go of his head, which lolled down again to his chest. “How long have you felt sick?”

“I dunno. I didn’t think I was sick.” His voice was hoarse. Samia sighed loud through her nose and sat in front of him, folding her great red wings close to her sides.

“I hope you didn’t make Father or the two others sick before they left,” Samia grumbled. She despised this sickness. It came and went like any drifting disease, usually too weak to cling to the drakes, but often attacked the hatchlings, who were too small to fend it off, or weakened dragons.

But it was a quick fix, though left the whelps tired and hungry afterward. Hopefully Alacian hadn’t been gotten his younger brothers and sisters infected, or else Samia would have a long night ahead of her, burning out all the corruption.

She pulled Alacian forward with a paw.

“Stay still,” she ordered. He scrunched his eyes closed as Samia opened her pointed maw; a thick flame shot from her gullet, trailing harmlessly over the small dragon’s scaled body.

The dragon closed her mouth after a full minute of burning fire. Alacian coughed, then blinked hard. Already he looked a little better, his eyes a bit brighter and his shaking a bit less.

Samia laid down now, and clutched the whelp between her paws. He stuck one of his forearms out, practiced. She started again with a smaller flame, and went limb by limb, purging the sickness.

“This is the second time I got sick,” Alacian grumbled. His head was resting on her forearm.

“You’re young. You get sick easily.”

“I’m not that young,” Alacian argued.

“You’re two. That’s very young.”

“Two is better than one!”

Samia rolled her eyes, but continued the healing.

A quiet ten minutes passed before Alacian spoke again, roused from his dozing.

“When is Father coming back?”

“I don’t know. Soon, maybe.” Samia began to blow fire against the gentle webs of his wings, the last place to burn.

“Oh.” He shifted. “I have another trick to show him. Do you want to see it?”

“You probably won’t be able to do it after this, Alacian. You’ll need to rest.”

“Aw, c’mon.” He shifted around again. “Hey! Do that trick of yours. With the ground.”

Samia sighed heavily, and pulled her head back. “It’s not a trick, Alacian.”

“You know what I mean. The whole -” He proceeded to growl deep in his throat, imitating grinding rocks.

Samia let go of him. The sickness was gone; all that remained would be his exhaustion now that the disease had been scorched out. She decided to humor him to cheer him up.

She placed a paw on the tan ground below and outstretched her talons. From deep within the center of her chest, she felt the earth surge beneath her, as alive as any living thing. She pulled her claws up – and the ground came with her, jutting up against her claw as she stretched it out, jagged and sharp, from its flatness. Samia’s heart began to beat hard at the simple manipulation of earth; she did not do this often. Sabellian usually forbid her to - it was the earth itself that her grandfather found the corruption in, and the ancient art of earth manipulation by black dragons had been forgotten by her corrupted brethren in favor of the destructive forces of lava and fire. She’d only found she could do it on a hunting trip when she’d grown frustrated and slammed her tail into the ground, only for the ground to rise up in turn, like a wave, before sinking back down.

She dropped her claw, and the earth dropped with it, sinking back down with a plop into the ground.

“Why can’t I do that?”

“Because you’re too young. And Father doesn’t want us to do it.”

“Oh.” He huffed. “Well when can I do it?”

“I don’t know.” None of the other drakes in the brood had tried it, too scared of Sabellian’s warnings about what the earth could drudge up.

“Aw. But -”

A heavy beating of wings surged above them, coming from the forest. Samia looked up; Neltharaku was gliding passed.

“Neltharaku,” she called out, and the leader of the Netherwing paused his flight and turned to hover, catching her eye. “You’ll be guarding tonight?”

Neltharaku nodded. “Two of my drakes will be, and I shall be close enough.”

Samia nodded back. Neltharaku had agreed to stay until Sabellian’s return, and they had further agreed on a rotation of guard duty.

Neltharaku turned and continued onward, making his way towards the Circle of Blood, the arena that many had fought to the death in – thus its unfortunate name.

She sighed. Sabellian usually was testing potions near there. It’d been too long since his departure; she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had happened.

But she had more immediate worries to think about.

“Let’s see if you’ve infected your brothers and sisters, Alacian,” Samia grumbled, then picked him up by the scruff of his neck with her maw and made her way down the ravine.

—-

Anduin leaned his head against his hand and watched as Wrathion, in whelp form, stretched out against the open window. The dragon’s tail hung down the side and swung once.

“I can’t believe you ate all of that.”

To the side, in a heap of plates, were the remains of the food that the Black Prince had inhaled – though hardly remained at all saved for smears of sauce and blood against the white porcelain. Not even the bones of the steaks and ribs were left; Wrathion had crunched on those, too, after devouring five mushan steaks and two racks of venison ribs so quickly Anduin had been sure he was going to choke on it all.

“You would do the same if all you had eaten for days was broth, prince,” Wrathion quipped. His wings were sagging down his sides, and his eyes closed; his horned head was tilted towards the window.

“I’m… not sure I would have eaten the bones.”

“Oh, good. I would have gladly taken them.”

Anduin glanced out of the window. It was late afternoon, and cooler and less humid today than it had been in the past week; the weather was almost pleasant. The darkening orange sun was beginning to sink below the far-away canopy of the ancient Wilds, but its glare was directed straight at Lion’s Landing, and Anduin could only watch for a moment with squinted eyes before they began to water from the brightness and he was forced to look away.

“Someone might see you in the window,” Anduin pointed out, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. The Black Prince rolled his eyes with great exaggeration, readjusted his wings and tapped his claws against the stone sill.

“Must you worry over everything?” Wrathion said, before turning his horned head to look at Anduin. “No one will see me.”

“Maybe not.” A small smile crept up Anduin’s face. “Though they may just think you’re a very strange cat if they do.”

Wrathion’s lazy look sharpened into a glare. “I am a dragon. I am not a cat of any variety.” He mumbled “cat” underneath his breath again, grumbled incoherently, then brought his tail up from hanging down at the sill to curl around his body.

“I know you’re a dragon. You’ve reminded me just about a dozen times.”

“Then refrain from calling me a cat, Prince Anduin.”

Anduin sighed loud enough for it to be a reply. Wrathion huffed.

The dragon was doing much better. He’d slept most of the day yesterday, after gorging himself, of course, on a meal as big as the one he’d just eaten. Anduin could hardly believe it’d been a day already since Alexstrasza the Life-binder had been in here. He wondered if she was staying close, as she’d said.

The prince watched Wrathion. The dragon was healthier, but… something was bothering else was bothering Anduin - the Black Prince had not mentioned the episode with the Sha at all. It was like he was glossing over it.

He recalled Wrathion’s outright dismissal to talk about it right after Anduin had purged the possession from him. But that had been immediately after; maybe, Anduin thought, if he tried to ask again, Wrathion would be more open…

But the prince doubted it. Wrathion was hardly ever “open,” even about his own schemes and plots. Something so personal, Anduin knew, would be hard-pressed to drag from the Black Prince.

It was worth a try, though, even though he knew it was going to curdle their good moods.

“Can we talk over something?”

“That depends, Prince Anduin. What do you want to talk over?”

“Something I don’t think you want to talk about.”

“Then the answer is ‘no.’”

The prince hesitated. Wrathion still looked, relaxed, out the window, unbothered by the exchange.

Should he let it go?

Anduin bit down on the inside of his bottom lip. He’d have to be the one to bring it up, or no one else would.

And maybe it’d be good for Wrathion to talk, if Anduin managed to get him to. Sometimes Anduin wished he’d opened up to his father when the king had asked him about the Bell, or about Aerin, or Bolvar, or – or any of the other losses if Anduin’s life. He’d always said no, of course, in order to look strong for his father, but it’d been hard to keep all that sadness to himself.

“With what happened the other day, with the Sha. I know you don’t want me to bring it up -”

“Do you? Good. Then I would advise you to stop talking.”

Wrathion’s lit face darkened as he turned his head to the prince.

Anduin pressed on, despite the glint in the dragon’s eyes as they leveled onto Anduin. “I know you’re just pretending it didn’t happen.”

Wrathion jumped from the window sill and shifted into human form. He looked down at Anduin in his chair with his eyes narrowed. Anduin ignored the offensive position.

“… And I’m not sure if that’s the best way you should be dealing with it. What you told me when you were under the Sha’s influence -”

Wrathion interrupted again. His voice sounded cold and distant. “Everything I told you was nonsense, Prince Anduin, only goaded by the Sha. Forget what you heard.”

“Like how you’re forgetting it, too?” Anduin replied. Wrathion’s sharp look deepened into a glare. The dragon opened his mouth, his lips curling back into a semi-scowl, but the blond prince was quicker.

“The Sha comes from somewhere, Wrathion. There has to be negative emotion, and when it does possess an individual, it just makes those feelings worse.” Anduin’s eyes did not leave Wrathion’s. “I know that wasn’t ‘nonsense’ coming out of your mouth, and you know it, too.”

Wrathion glowered at him for a moment. He drew up his shoulders.

“What? Do you think by making me admit what I said was true will make me feel somehow better? Or are you vain enough to think that you can cure me of those ill thoughts with some cooing words of yours?”

Anduin glared. “I’m not going to force you to do something you don’t want to do. But if you keep bottling up those thoughts, they’ll get worse. They’ll eat away at you.”

Wrathion glanced, briefly, at Anduin’s right shoulder; Anduin realized it was the one the Black Prince had dug into with his Sha-twisted claws. The muscle was still painfully sore there.

Before the prince could say anything, Wrathion’s eyes flicked back to Anduin’s, and he scoffed. “I have everything under control, Prince Anduin.” He readjusted his leather sash, almost like an afterthought to distract himself. “Do not bring it up again.”

It was a warning. The two princes stared at one another.

This wasn’t working. Anduin leaned back in his seat and sighed loud through his nose. He should have known better, he chided of himself, to have thought that Wrathion would have admitted what had happened during the incident with the Sha.

At least he’d tried – and at least the argument hadn’t gotten worse.

The prince forced his tense shoulders to relax. He ran a hand over his face, then through his hair, and sighed again. There was no use speaking about it further; Wrathion wasn’t going to talk about it.

“Alright. I won’t.” He gave Wrathion a sharp, lingering look to let the dragon know he didn’t believe what Wrathion was saying, even though Anduin was retreating from the growing argument.

Because he knew the Black Prince was lying, and that Wrathion was lying to himself, too; both were aware that what Wrathion had said during his possession was true, and not, in any variety, “nonsense.”

Wrathion glowered at the look. He turned away from Anduin and, with a great huff, sat down at the plain desk chair, which was turned outward to the room. The dragon sprawled his legs out – probably aiming to be rude with the lazy gesture, as his feet were perhaps only an inch away from Anduin’s, and intruding on his space in not an intimate, but an aggravating way – as smoke curled from one corner of his mouth.

Anduin rolled his eyes. Typical of Wrathion to retort after an argument with something so childish. The prince moved his legs away, but Wrathion just stretched his legs out more. Anduin glared. Wrathion pretended not to notice, looking straight ahead.

“You know,” Wrathion said, after a long’s moment’s silence, filled only by the gulls outside, “I did enjoy one thing about Mason’s Folly.”

“You di -? Oh.” The prince’s stomach did an odd twisting. Wrathion glanced at him. “Me, too.”

Wrathion looked away with a small smirk.

“I think you enjoyed using me as a pillow, as well.”

Wrathion looked back. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“I did no such thing.”

“Really? I remember differently.”

Wrathion huffed and looked away again. Anduin smiled wide to himself.

“Oh. I have something for you.”

Wrathion looked up as Anduin stood and grabbed his bag. There was a shuffling, like leather folding, and the dragon landed on the bed in front of him in whelp form after a quick glide from the chair, and folded his wings, apparently too impatient to wait. The prince gave him a look – patience – but Wrathion’s eyes were trained on the bag.

“I tried to clean it when you were sleeping,” Anduin murmured. He suddenly felt a bit stupid as he undid the flap. “I did ask one of the tailors to fix the rest of your clothes yesterday.” The prince nodded his head over to his dresser. “They came by with them this morning.”

Wrathion made a pleased humming noise.

Anduin grabbed the soft cloth and metal band from his satchel and pulled it out. When Wrathion had been sleeping off Alexstrasza’s extensive healing process, the prince had managed to clean out most of the dirt from the cloth and some of the scuff marks on the red metal.

Wrathion shot forward so fast Anduin jumped. He shifted in a mere second from whelp to human and snatched the turban from the prince’s hands; the Black Prince was only inches away from him, and Anduin stared, but Wrathion wasn’t paying attention to the older prince. He was too busy looking over the cloth and the band, grinning so wide nearly all of his sharp teeth showed.

“You found it,” Wrathion exclaimed, delighted. He had some trouble wrapping the cloth with only one working hand, but he managed it all the same and placed the turban back on his head with the band to hold it secure. He readjusted the bangled side that fell near his face, and his black bangs stuck out awkwardly from underneath. Wrathion impatiently tried to brush them aside but they kept falling back down, so he ignored them.

Anduin smiled at him. At least that had lifted the mood; he wasn’t about to mention, however, that he found it at the Tavern when he went to look for him during the Sha corruption.

And it was good, because Wrathion didn’t ask where he’d found it. Maybe he’d guessed.

“You continue to show your usefulness to me, Prince Anduin,” the Black Prince said, and Anduin rolled his eyes.

“Mhm.” He slid the dresser open and handed Wrathion his gold-trimmed spaulders and scaled tabard. Wrathion snatched those from him, too, and went on to inspect the articles. They weren’t perfect, but they were a little better than they had been; the cuts had been sewn and the blood stains washed out, though the missing scales on the tabard couldn’t be replaced.

“Passable,” the Black Prince said, and slid the tabard on first before buckling on the shoulder-pads. Anduin leaned forward and readjusted the left spaulder, which was a bit lopsided.

“There.”

Wrathion’s delight flickered into his usual, cool confidence. “Much better.”

Anduin looked at him, and Wrathion looked back. They were still only a couple of inches apart. The dragon leaned forward -

Then moved around him, smirking. Anduin mock-glared at his back.

“Did you know Sabellian called this a ‘get-up’?” Wrathion turned back to Anduin now, and readjusted his turban for the third time. “When he wears that ridiculous outfit of his own?” The dragon huffed.

Anduin smiled wryly. “That outfit does suit you.”

“Of course it does.”

Anduin paused.

“So, ah - what about Sabellian?”

Wrathion’s eyes flickered. “What about Sabellian?”

“You know he’s going to come back.”

The dragon scratched idly at his jaw. “I’ve considered possible options for dealing with my dear elder brother.”

“Like?”

Wrathion slid his eyes over to Anduin. He smirked, coy. “I don’t want to give away the surprise.”

Anduin frowned at the dragon. “It shouldn’t be a surprise,” Anduin chided, but without malice. “When he comes back, I should know what you’re planning to do.”

Wrathion was looking at his claws now. His gauntlets were still missing – and would probably stay missing, unless one of his Agents came across the Kun-lai cave where he’d lost them. At least, Anduin thought, he had the rest of his ensemble, as battered as it was.

“I will consider sharing,” Wrathion said. “- Only when I have solidified my plan, of course.”

Anduin sighed at him. The Black Prince was exasperating, sometimes.

“May I make a suggestion, then?”

“Mm… no.”

Anduin continued anyway. “Even if you won’t tell me this plan of yours, you can at least answer this: are you planning to kill him?”

Wrathion looked up at him. His eyebrows were scrunched and his mouth a lopsided frown.

“What kind of absurd question is that?” The Black Prince asked. “I believe you already know that answer, Prince Anduin.”

Anduin leaned his cane against the bed. “I don’t think you should.”

Wrathion stared at him – then laughed once, disbelieving. He didn’t look angry, but Anduin knew he wasn’t going to stay like that for long. “What?”

Anduin braced himself. He’d swerved passed an argument about the Sha earlier, but this was an argument he couldn’t avoid. “You should keep him alive. I know what he did to you was wrong -” The prince’s eyes flicked down to Wrathion’s cast, then back up to his eyes - “but what you did wasn’t good, either. If you could somehow convince him to speak with you, without any violence, then maybe this could end without anyone else dying.”

“Your strive for peace on all accounts constrains you, dear prince.” Wrathion’s tone was not sincere, but mocking; his eyes began to grow cold again, as they had in the argument about the Sha.

Anduin shook his head. Why did they have to argue about everything?

“I know when to fight, and when it’s the right thing to do.” He looked at Wrathion earnestly. “Defending yourself is the right thing to do, and I would never condone that. But Sabellian still hasn’t come back for you, and I think before he does, you should -”

“Should what? Send some sort of messenger dove proclaiming my goodwill? Shall I grovel on my feet and beg for his forgiveness?”

Anduin glared. “I meant you should try to reason with him. Wrathion, you two are just going to keep trying to kill one another until one of you is dead – or you both are.”

“I won’t be the one losing.”

“But what if you are? He defeated you the first time -”

“That was only because -”

“You didn’t expect it, I know. But we have no idea where he is or what he’s doing. You say you have a plan, but even then you just said you haven’t finished it. What if he comes back and you’re caught off guard again?”

Wrathion drew himself up. The red in his eyes was hot.

“I won’t be.”

Anduin ran a hand over his face in exasperation.

“And may I ask why you’re so bent on peace with that lunatic?” Wrathion asked

Anduin dropped his hand. “I’m not ‘bent on peace.’ I’m trying to make reason of this.”

Wrathion could hide behind his mask of confidence all he liked, but Anduin needed to show him the realistic side without outright saying aloud what he was thinking: Sabellian was older and stronger than the Black Prince, and the odds were not in Wrathion’s favor. He was going to get himself killed, and Anduin would not allow that to happen.

“Wrathion, I really do think he’s just trying to protect his family. If you showed him that you weren’t going to kill them, then maybe he might leave you alone.”

Anduin knew he was starting to sound desperate. Wrathion scoffed.

“And if I do intend to kill the rest of them?”

Anduin stared at him, his eyes hard. Wrathion glowered back. “Why?”

“They’re a liability.”

“To you, you mean.”

Wrathion rolled his eyes.

Anduin rubbed his own. It wasn’t like he needed to ask Wrathion ‘why’ – he already knew the answer, when Wrathion had first been possessed by the Sha:

If they’re reminded of what my family was with Sabellian, with their corruption, they’ll remember. They’ll remember where I came from. Then that is all they will see again until that dragon is dead. Until they are all dead.

Anduin bit the inside of his cheek and looked at the stone floor for a moment, his eyes trailing around the curved pattern of the worn blanket that lay flat there.

“They shouldn’t be,” Anduin said, more quietly than he had spoken before. “ - A liability, I mean. They’re your fami -”

“Do not even think of finishing that.” Anduin looked up and Wrathion looked so angry the prince had the instinctual urge to back up a step before recalling he’d seen worse looks from Lo’Gosh, and so he stood his ground. “Those - monsters are not my ‘family.’ Do not get overly sentimental – though I’m sure that’s difficult for you.”

Anger licked at the back of his throat. Anduin glowered. “They aren’t monsters, and you know that. Sabellian doesn’t seem corrupted.”

“He’ll be hearing his Old Gods soon enough.”

“Like you did?”

Wrathion froze. Anduin regretted saying it the moment the words left his mouth. His anger snuffed out.

“I didn’t -”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t give advice on such situations, Prince Anduin,” Wrathion said. His voice was distant and suddenly very quiet, which was more unnerving than his angrier tone. “I believe the last time you dealt with an enemy, it ended badly for you.” His eyes flicked down to Anduin’s leg, then back up to Anduin, coolly.

Anduin’s glare resurfaced, and so did his anger.

“Fine. Do this on your own.”

“Fine. I hardly need your help.”

“Fine.”

They glared at one another for a second more before Anduin snatched his cane. Let Wrathion deal with this himself, he thought angrily. He didn’t need Anduin? Then fine.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Anduin hissed. “I have other things to do with my time than argue with a spoiled, two-year-old dragon.”

He didn’t give Wrathion the pleasure of replying. He turned and opened the door before closing it behind him hard, and stalked off, his guards trailing behind him, to find something to waste his time on.

—-

Wrathion glared at the door.

“Infuriating little -” He flexed his left hand into a loose fist as smoke puffed from his mouth. “How can he possibly think that he can talk to me like that?” Wrathion paced back and forth, though there was little room to walk. He looked away from the door and glared at nothing in particular. Stupid, idiotic, ridiculous human prince. Anduin Wrynn had no idea what he was even talking about. And to think the blond prince badgered Wrathion himself for thinking he knew everything! The dragon scowled and bristled, more smoke curling from his mouth in aggravated puffs.

“You do bicker with him often, my Prince.” The voice came from the corner of the room; Wrathion looked over and shot Left a glare. The orc was nearly transparent thanks to her Blacktalon magic.

“Yes, thank you, Left, I believe I know that.”

Wrathion stopped pacing and tried to compose himself. He could not allow himself to be… worked up over Anduin Wrynn. He had other matters to attend to. More important matters, he tried to tell himself, than a stupid argument with a stupid human prince.

“Tell me something. Update me.” He rolled back his shoulders, trying to force himself to calm down. Left stared at him. “Distract me!”

The orc continued to stare; she looked confused. “On – updates on what, my Prince?”

“Anything. I have been… out of commission for nearing a week. My champions are surely annoyed at my absence, and the Horde and the Alliance can do wondrously wicked things to one another in a simple handful of days.” He looked at her expectantly. Surely there had to be something to distract him from Anduin – and from Sabellian, of course - for the time being.

Left nodded.

“We don’t have as much information as usual; many of the Blacktalons were otherwise distracted with looking for Sabellian.”

Wrathion nodded offhandedly; he’d expected as much. He was not looking at her, but at the bottom of the wall. His broken arm was beginning to blink with a numb pain.

“There’s been reports of a small team of Horde excavators making their way to the Vale. King Varian helped settle disputes between the dwarven clans of Ironforge.”

Wrathion tilted his head. Excavators at the Vale? Interesting. Garrosh may just be looking for something else in that ancient place to sway the tide, just as he had searched for the Divine Bell. He hummed to himself. Very interesting.

The news of the dwarves made sense, as well. Wrathion had not been awake to hear what the king had told Anduin of the happenings at Ironforge. That was intriguing, too; Varian was strengthening his pack. Things were slowly beginning to boil.

“Is that it?”

Left nodded. “I am sorry, my Prince, but that’s all the news we have at the moment. We are also short on Blacktalons in Pandaria, after you sent a large group to Blade’s Edge -”

Wrathion looked at her, confused. “I had only sent two to Blade’s Edge before Sabellian’s… untimely arrival. I don’t think two is very many.”

The orc stared. “You asked me to send more, my Prince – the first day we arrived at Lion’s Landing.”

Wrathion looked at her blankly. He recalled no such thing. The dragon furrowed his brows.

“ - Right,” he said, quickly, before he made himself look foolish. “Of course I did.” Left was squinting at him.

“… Shall I send the order for their return?”

“That won’t be necessary.” If he forced himself, he could just, just remember a memory of tired anger, remember his alien-sounding voice grumble the words send more – but that was all. He recalled only some bits of his sickness before the -… before the Sha fully overtook him: the inn at the Valley, Anduin forcing potions down his throat, Anduin twisting his arm back in place, Anduin’s hand against his face. But most of it was a cold blur. “Where are they now?”

“The cross between Zangarmarsh and Blade’s Edge.”

Wrathion grinned. This was some delightful news. He could hurt Sabellian without even touching him.

“Excellent! Oh, and do tell them to hurry it up.” His grin became vaguely malicious. “Let’s see how well Sabellian’s dear brood does without its protector.”

Left nodded. Wrathion was very pleased with himself. Out cold, and he still managed to take care of things, even if he didn’t remember it!

The dragon went to rub his hands together, only to remember he couldn’t because of his right arm. He scoffed. This broken arm business was annoying.

“Ah, and Left,” he started, turning to her. “I’d like you to do me a favor.”

“Of course.”

“The Pandaren have completely abandoned Mogu’shan Vaults, am I correct?”

The orc nodded. “Our reports showed they retreated after dismantling the power structure of the mogu’s creation engine. They have left little guards, but as you had ordered before, the Blacktalons have been investigating inside.”

Wrathion grinned. Yes – his Agents had found many lovely things in the Vaults. Even before the re-emerging of the Thunder King, Wrathion had known of the mogu’s shaping and rearranging of Titan technology. As brutish as the race was, the mogu were clever when they wanted to be.

There was one bauble in particular he was interested in acquiring to deal with Sabellian – but at the time the Blacktalons had discovered it, he’d found no use for it – not at that moment, anyway. He’d planned to keep it until the Burning Legion, but… this might work as well.

“Good. I would like you to take two Blacktalons and yourself there, as well as champions – but only those who are of the… unquestioning type. Offer a nice, shiny prize.” He found many of his heroes were too prodding, too suspicious of his plans; those would do no good in this particular assignment. He needed those who simply wanted the reward, and there were many of those to pick from.

“You would like me to go?” Left grunted. “And leave you unguarded?”

“I will be fine, Left. Anduin Wrynn would never dream of letting anything happen to me.” It was a half-joke. Left looked at him vacantly. He sighed; she was so finicky and without humor. “Post a duo of guards along Lion’s Landing. Make sure they are not spotted.”

Left readjusted her hands on her crossbow. “Very well.” She still looked unsure. Wrathion watched her. Maybe it was foolish to send his last remaining personal bodyguard out on a mission, but Left needed a well-deserved distraction - especially after the loss of Right, which neither of them had even spoken of – and Wrathion prided himself on being a gracious prince. “What do you need at Mogu’shan?”

“The large trillium chains they found below the Engine of Nalak’sha.”

The Blacktalons had descended down into the pit and had discovered the chains, each link half as large as a human; Wrathion recalled hearing how similar chains had been found in Ulduar, holding back Yogg’saron in his prison below.

If these chains were designed to hold an Old God – perhaps intending to hold Y’shaarj before its destruction – they could surely hold a dragon.

“And do what with them?”

“Ah…” Wrathion said. He hadn’t worked out the kinks in his plan, yet; he’d thought of the chains, but the rest of the idea was hazy. “I will… work on that. Secure the chains, at least, and contact me.”

Left nodded. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. The usually blunt guard looked almost hesitant. Wrathion picked up on it immediately.

“Is there something bothering you, Left?”

“I am… unsure if bringing champions along with me is wise.”

Wrathion raised a brow at her.

Left shifted again. “I neglected to tell you one last report. There has been… vague hostilities against Blacktalons. One was punched in the face and and his assailant accused you of being a liar. That has been the worst incident, but there’s been some general dissent to the Agents and Watchers as a whole – including yourself.”

Wrathion stared at her.

“I’m unsure how, but I believe the secret of your support of both factions had leaked to Alliance and Horde champions alike.”

… Oh.

Wrathion hissed through his teeth. Of all things, this was something he did not need at the moment. How had that possibly slipped out? He’d been so careful… and the Horde and Alliance champions hardly spoke to one another.

He couldn’t lose his champions. Wrathion swallowed, and squinted hard at the wall, mind turning. They had to trust him. Maybe they would simply get over his little white lie.

Maybe.

The Black Prince hissed again. This game was too delicate. He’d assumed the lie simply wouldn’t be shared. Wrathion was annoyed at naivete.

“Very well. Take champions who are unquestioning and uncaring about their faction’s worries.” He looked at Left. “Will that be a problem?”

He couldn’t afford to think of this as a mistake. His mouth started to dry. No – he couldn’t make mistakes.

He was the Black Prince. He didn’t make mistakes.

“No, my Prince.”

“Good.” He nodded towards the door. “Contact me when you have the chains.”

Left nodded – then disappeared into the air. And Wrathion was alone.

—-

Something nudged the end of Samia’s snout.

She snorted. There was another nudge.

“Samia?”

Alacian, whispering.

What did he want now? The older dragon kept her eyes closed.

“Go back to sleep.”

“I hear something outside.”

Begrudgingly, Samia opened one of her eyes, crusted with sleep. Alacian sat in front of her face with his wings sagging at his sides and his head leaned close. She focused her eye on him.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s because you’re talking. Shh!”

Samia huffed. She opened her other eye and lifted her horned head from her paws and, withholding a yawn, looked out to the entrance of the cave. It was deep night outside, and the hazy edges of the bladed mountains beyond were gently lit with the green-yellow glow of the nether streams high above.

But all she could hear was the heavy breathing of her brothers and sisters around her. Samia tilted her head back and forth, straining for any sounds, but still could not discern anything from the background noise of her siblings.

She snorted, and looked back at Alacian in annoyance. “There’s nothing outside. Even if there is, Neltharaku and his drakes are standing watch for the night.”

“But I heard something!”

One of the drakes snorted and shuffled in his sleep at Alacian’s voice. Samia sighed. The whelp was going to wake the whole brood with his whining.

“It must have been one of the nether-dragons, then.”

Samia put her head on her paws again. Alacian shifted his weight and glanced back at the entrance.

The dragon reached forward and pressed the whelp down to the ground; Alacian squirmed and made a distressed peeping sound underneath her heavy paw, but she did not let go. The drake that had shuffled about groaned and put his forelegs over his head.

“Stop worrying. Riling yourself up over a simple noise will do no good. You need to rest after that sickness-scare, anyway.”

Samia retreated her paw, and Alacian lay huddled in a confused clump, tails and wings and legs askew. He grumbled at her, unfurled himself from his twisted limbs, and curled back up more comfortably. The whelp did not say anything else, though he was giving her a less-than-happy look.

The older dragon eyed him. At least he would be quiet.

It went silent again. The slow, rhythmic breathing of the dragons around her began to lull Samia back to sleep.

Her eyes were closed again when something shifted near the cave entrance – shifting like sliding dirt, something being dragged.

Samia looked up, her curved fins rising. She went still.

Alacian peered up at her, eyes wide.

“See?” He whispered. Samia put up a claw to shush him. She squinted her eyes at the entrance and waited for the sound to reappear. She briefly entertained the idea of calling out to Neltharaku, but thought better of it – because Samia realized, just then, that she should have heard the breathing of the nether-dragons, just as she heard the breathing of her siblings’. They may have been outside, but her hearing was sharp.

But she didn’t hear anything.

The fins along her neck fully extended now. Her claws twitched.

Was she being paranoid? Samia glanced around at the others in the brood, then back at the entrance. The raw memory of Ryxia being killed in a cave, a cave like this, itched at the back of her mind.

The dragon decided to check – just in case. Sabellian had charged her of taking care of and protecting the brood in his stead, and she would rather be paranoid than careless about it.

Samia got to her feet. Alacian did as well. The dragon pushed him down again without looking away from the entrance. The sound had not reappeared, but the simple lack of sounds was unnerving enough.

“Stay here,” Samia whispered. She tapped the drake who had partially woken earlier. He groaned.

“Thalarian, stand guard.”

The drake stretched, eyed her with annoyance, and flopped on his side. With a scowl Samia grabbed his tail and heaved him to his feet.

“Fine!” He whispered back, alarmed. “Fine.” His eyes were blurred and hazy with sleep, but at least Samia had another drake to watch the others while she was out inspecting the sound. “What’s -” he yawned. “- wrong?”

“Nothing. But if I yell, wake the others.”

He blinked at her, nodded dumbly, then yawned again.

Samia went to walk forward, and almost stepped on Alacian.

“Can I come?”

“I told you to stay here,” Samia responded, gruff, and pushed the whelp with a gentle swipe of her paw to Thalarian, who was practically swaying from exhaustion.

She did not wait for Alacian’s reply. Samia ducked her head and folded her wings in a crouch, and went to the entrance. It was difficult to keep her paws from making noise as they slid quiet against the rock floor, and she scowled for it.

Samia soon peered her entrance out from the cave; her maw was curled back in a snarl. The nether light folded across her black and red scales as she looked to and fro.

The two nether-drakes that should have been standing guard, flanking the entrance, were gone.

Samia’s spine began to tingle. Not even imprints of where the two drakes had sat remained, as if they’d simply evaporated into the air.

She paused – but only for a moment. Samia inched her way cautiously from the cave, keeping her horned head hunched and close to the ground.

The dragon looked around again. The drakes were not around the sides of cave, either.

Maybe the drakes were lazy, Samia thought, and had abandoned their posts to hunt; she would not put that passed the Netherwing, recalling Neltharaku’s slack reaction to the Black Prince and the killing of his two children. They were uncaring, as much as Samia could see.

But even then – Samia doubted Neltharaku would wish to anger Sabellian by shirking off the truce of protection. Allowing his drakes to leave their duties was not characteristic of the leader of the Netherwing.

A raptor call startled her. Smoke shot from her nose and her claws gripped the ground; with a hiss, Samia forced herself to relax, though her claws were still tense as the silence faded inward again. The valley yawned out in front of her. The empty loneliness of the bladed mountains was almost a sound itself, echoing and vacant.

Samia straightened from her crouch. She did not see any streams of nether signaling the departure of the nether-drakes. They either hadn’t left, or had left much earlier -… though something was telling her it was the former. Something was wrong. They should have been here.

Samia glanced around again – and her eyes stopped. There in the rock-ground by the side of the cave, the loose dirt had slid back to make a gentle imprint of a trail – as if something had been dragged over it. It rounded around the corner of the rock and disappeared on the other side.

The warning tingle was intense in her spine now.

“Thalarian,” she called back. Her fins were fully extended, curved forward. Something was very wrong. “Wake the others. Move to the back -”

Something slammed into her neck.

She snarled in surprise just as a fierce, stinging pain stabbed where her neck met her head.

Samia screeched and spun. The small weight and great pain remained as she twirled – but as she twisted her neck she saw black-clad legs balancing against her spine. Mortals!

The dragon screamed and spun again. Another pain bloomed at her ankle and out of instinct she swept her forearm out, and it collided with a fleshy crunch against something; dizzy from the pain, she saw a humanoid form fly back at the impact and slam against the side of the cave.

She focused on the other mortal. With a snap of her wings she tossed her first attacker on her neck off. Fire shot from her mouth, thick like lava, and scorched where the assailant had fallen -… but the mortal – a human female, dressed in black leather – was too fast, and rolled out of the way as the ground erupted in red and brown churning bubbles to her side as the molten fire hit the ground.

But the human was not lucky for long. A blur of black thundered from the cave’s mouth and collided with the rogue; drake and human went tumbling, snarling and screaming. In the flurry Samia could not tell which one of her siblings it was.

But she had little time to think about that. Blood was dripping down her neck and onto her shoulder, and dripping from her ankle.

They were being ambushed.

From the very air itself another opponent appeared, an orc of green skin, and Samia wasted no time in slashing forward with a snarl, talons reaching out. The orc dodged, and ducked forward, daggers in both of his hands, and Samia moved back so that ivory weapons whistled against air instead of her chest. Flame spurted from her mouth, and still the orc dodged. He was nimble for his size.

Samia’s tail hit back against the cave. She surged forward, startled she had allowed herself to be pressed back so much. She couldn’t be backed into the cave where there was little room to fight – but the main worry was that of leading the assailants into where the hatchlings and younger drakes were. Samia had to guard the entrance at all costs.

The dragon and the orc traded blows; Samia was forcing the orc back with the snapping of her jaws and the swiping of her talons. The screaming of the human and the drake who had tumbled from the cave so quickly had not stopped.

“Wake up!” Samia roared, just as her claws found purchase on the orc and she flung him to the side like a doll. “Protect the brood!”

She glanced back, smoke shooting from her panting mouth, and saw her words were wasted. More rogues had appeared – at least six, though it was hard to tell with them moving so quickly and vanishing and reappearing like smoke – were surrounding the entrance of the cave. Three drakes, including Thalarian, were attempting to drive them back.

These were the Black Prince’s rogues. The outfit they wore was the same as the blood elf’s, the one who had cut Ryxia open like a pig.

Samia snarled.

She hurdled forward, grabbed a rogue from behind, jumped into the sky and pummeled him into the hard ground. The cracking of his spine was audible. She thought little of it as she went to grab another attacker, but they were alerted her presence, now, and all, with their nimble moves and dodges, missed her flailing claws.

“Do not let them enter the cave.”

The three drakes nodded just as the rogues pushed forward again. The mortals’ blows were swift and able, and they moved with such calculation that their training was evident. The drakes’ frenzied attacks were clumsy and awkward in comparison.

But the Black Prince’s rogues did not have one thing. Samia lifted into the sky, her barbed tail smacking against one of the assailants’ heads, aimed her mouth, and a line of fire shrieked from her open maw, curling forward and hissing against the ground, creating a barrier between the cave and the rogues.

The drakes took the opportunity to jump the fire line and drive the mortals back; the fight was soon relocated out into the open where the sharp mountains protruded on either side of the valley. From the air, Samia saw that the first drake to fight was busy dismembering the human rogue farther ahead.

Where was Neltharaku?

She turned, wings beating, and glanced at the cave… and only then from her heightened vantage point could she see the still, blue-bleeding bodies of the two nether-drakes hidden behind the sides of the cave.

That had been the dragging sound.

How had these rogues appeared? How had her father allowed them to pass? What… complications had Sabellian found himself in?

Hot, burning rage swelled in her chest, behind her eyes.

Sabellian had charged her of taking care of the brood, and she would not fail her father. She would not let this Black Prince, this faceless monster, destroy any more of her family.

Samia folded her wings and dove. When she landed, the ground cracked underneath her, and her tail slammed hard against two of the rogues. Two others abandoned one of the larger drakes and rushed her, swords held aloft. Samia was the eldest, the fiercest – and the biggest threat.

She met them head-on with a roar. Their fight was a dance; they twirled and dodged and spun. Her tail swung, her mouth breathed flame. The night was lit with burning orange and the screams of dragon and mortal alike. Blood stained Samia’s paws, stained her teeth as she snatched an elf in-between her teeth and crunched.

But more rogues were appearing. This was no ambush – this was a full assault.

Other drakes came from the cave. But some were still very young, and inexperienced – but it was all they had. Talsian and Nasandria were the strongest of the adolescents, but they were not here to help, and Samia was the only grown dragon, now that Neltharaku was missing, that was even in the brood at all.

Yet though she was the only mature dragon, she could fight with the force and ferocity of five of her brothers and sisters combined. Her head rang with clear, sharpened fury. She felt very much alive.

The rogues, however, were not backing off despite the new drakes and Samia’s growing anger, and the youngest dragons were becoming more red than black with each wound they sustained. The might of an angry wyrm was great, but nothing could beat sheer numbers – especially when such numbers were so heavily trained.

A worgen grabbed onto her wing, claws digging into the webbing, and Samia tore her off and threw her into her allies – and it was only then that she realized that the cave was right behind the dragons again as her wings tapped against the side of the rock. The rogues had managed to push them back.

“Where is Neltharaku?” One of the drakes asked, as she slapped aside a dual-wielding human.

“Not here,” Samia answered. The orc who she’d fought earlier slashed at her, but Samia slammed her head against his chest and he fell back.

The leader of the Netherwing should have heard the fight; the entire commotion was echoing and rebounding against the tall, sharp sides of the valley. Something must have befallen him, and Samia knew she could not count on him to appear.

The very tip of her wings brushed back against the side of the cave. They were too close. They would have to push back the rogues by sheer force or take to the air, but the latter option would mean keeping the cave entrance open and undefended.

Samia’s blood was singing. Another idea may work.

“To the air,” she called above the noise, above all the shrieks and clashes and screams. “Now!”

The drakes did not hesitate at the authoritative voice. They jumped from the ground, some stalling in their leap as they tore off the attackers they had been hopelessly interlocked with. A grey hawk, circling above, was startled by the sudden movement and swept away, but continued to circle the fight.

Samia stayed grounded.

“Samia?” Came a confused yell from above.

She ignored it. In the single heartbeat of the second she had as the rogues came forward towards the opening of the defense, the dragon focused her wild, clear rage into the center of her chest, down into her legs, into her paws.

And with roar she slammed down her feet, and the ground cracked and split in front of her. Shatter marks, reaching and finger-like, shot outwards. She felt the earth hum to life beneath her, seized its power, and heaved the ground upwards; it rolled forward like a wave and slammed into the rogues, sending them far, far back.

Samia told the earth to stop, and it stopped, deflating down to the ground once again.

“Descend!”

And the drakes, watching above, dove down, tackling many of the dazed assassins to the ground.

The ground thrummed. Samia felt her ancient birthright stir deep within her chest, and took it. She singled out one of the rogues and with a flick of her paw, sent a jagged shard of rock upwards from the ground her stood, and it impaled him through the gut, just as Gruul had impaled her brood brothers and sisters.

The fight’s favor was equaling out again. They were farther from the cave entrance than they had ever been, and Samia’s manipulation of the earth had obviously taken the rogues off guard. Didn’t they know black dragons were once the warders of the earth? Samia mused. Granted, such power had been long abandoned when her grandfather had dug too deep into the depths and had found something evil in the ground… but here, there was nothing the earth was hiding, and Samia used it willingly.

The dragons fought hard, and the fight wore on. The fighting was endless, and continued for so long Samia’s legs began to ache, and with each shift of earth she felt her energy drain. She was using it without caution; it had been too long since she had done such “magic.” She would have to use it more sparingly.

A blood elf managed to slash her across the snout with a dagger. It bounded harmlessly off of most of her thick scales, but managed to nick in-between two. Yet it did not leave pain – it left a numbness. Poison.

She hissed and swatted him away. Her previously sustained wounds began to burn. Samia nearly stumbled from the sudden, intensified pain. What manner of poison was this?

“Samia! Samia, to your right!”

The dragon’s mind was blurring. She tried to focus her eyes, but where forms should have been were only blotches of moving color.

Pain struck against her chest. Samia roared and turned, stumbling over herself, wings going awry, and for a moment her eyes managed to sharpen – the worgen she had thrown before had stabbed her in the chest, only just missing her lungs. The she-beast pulled the black sword out and raised it to strike again.

The hawk that had been circling above shot down onto the assassin. The worgen snarled and stumbled back as the bird attacked, its talons digging into her fur and its beak snapping at her eyes.

Samia shook her head hard. The poison was lessening. It had not been a large dose.

The hawk fled from the worgen’s face and swept back up in the air with a cry, disappearing. Samia smashed the bleeding rogue to the ground, confused about the hawk’s actions but having little time to mull over them.

She turned back to the fight, her chest heaving with pain. One of the drakes had fallen; Samia couldn’t tell if he was dead or not. The others were not doing well, either. The rogues were injured, too, but they were like automatons, tireless.

Hadn’t there been more, though? She breathed a ball of superheated flame at one group of rogues and managed to catch fire to one. Samia scanned the fight. No. Some of the rogues had gone.

Samia glanced back – and saw three of them were bolting towards the entrance of the cave. They must have gone around her when she had been stumbling from the poison.

The dragon thundered after them, half running, half flying. They saw her coming. One stopped and turned to defend the others, while the two remaining continued on.

Samia ignored the defender. The cave was unguarded. No one stopped the two from entering it. The hatchlings and young drakes were helpless inside.

The defender, a human male, disappeared as she barreled forward. He reappeared on her back, and the sudden pain against her spine was a dagger he stabbed through her scales. Samia shrieked but pressed on. The entrance was right ahead. There was a high-pitched shriek from inside.

Samia slammed her feet into the ground and the human on her back went flying, finding no purchase against her slick neck.

A huge, hulking form swerved around the rock face and pummeled into one of the rogues that was entering the cave – a large brown bear. It ripped the male orc’s arm off and descended with a bellow over the rogue. The other assailant ahead stopped and turned to help his backup – only to have an arrow shot into his chest, and the hawk from before fall shrieking onto his face.

Samia turned as a whistle slung through the air, forcing the bear off of the mauled rogue and to the side. To her right, aiming his bow, was a tall, pale-skinned orc, half his face hidden by a ragged wolf mask, clad with dark red and silver armor. His tusked mouth was set back in a grim frown, and he let loose another arrow at the rogue, and the attacker fell.

Samia recognized him instantly – Rexxar, half-orc, half-ogre.

Sabellian had mentioned he hadn’t seen the half-orc for months. What was he doing back here?

She found herself uncaring. He was here, and he was helping them, the black dragons, and not his fellow mortals.

The human who had fallen from her neck disappeared as he seemed to take in the sudden shift of odds that were not in his favor. Samia looked at Rexxar, and the half-orc looked at her. She nodded her thanks, and he nodded back.

The cave was safe. Now they had to drive back the rest.

She was exhausted, but Samia turned anyway. She found the rage again. She had fought Gruul with her brothers and sisters and had been the only one to survive – out of sheer dumb luck, surely, but still, she had survived. She would not let some marching ants in costumes parade into her home any longer. The earth hummed below her again. She hardly saw Rexxar join the fray with his bear as her focus intensified, fighting off her exhaustion.

She gripped the ground. The hum became louder. Samia forced the earth upwards again, as she had before, but this time she called fire with it – and in the middle of the battlefield, cracks appeared at her call, and with a gush of red and orange, flame and lava split forth from the core of the broken earth. The drakes were unharmed as the lava fell, and Rexxar was quick to dodge – but the some of the agents were not so lucky. Screams peeled off from those mortals who were unlucky to not move out of the way as some of their comrades had done as burning rock fell upon them.

The dragons, on the other hand, exhausted from battle just as Samia was, surged forward as the flame fell on their hides. Samia joined them. Earth and lava was the heart of the Black Dragonflight – their inner power. And it strengthened them, pushed forward their vigor, and they descended on the remaining rogues with tooth and claw once again.

The rogues went to retreat to the left, but Rexxar’s bear was there to push them back. They went to the right, but Rexxar himself was there, wielding two iron axes. And with the dragons in front, lead by Samia, the Black Prince’s agents had no where to turn to but right back into the fray or run backwards.

Their numbers were cut in half; the mortals had no chance. Samia saw it, and they saw it, too.

The rogues began to retreat.

Some disappeared altogether. Some turned and bolted, aiming to the higher forests in the high mountains where it would be easy to hide.

“After them!” Samia screamed. “Don’t let them escape! Kill them all!”

Two of the drakes lifted off and flew after the assassins who were retreating, as did Rexxar’s hawk.

Samia watched them before looking out at the drakes. Some began to slump over, and others just fell entirely. The dragon scowled; black dragons were no healers. The rogues may have not killed any of her siblings initially, but Samia was worried infection or slow blood loss might claim some. At least they’d fought the rogues off, and had killed some without them killing any of the hatchlings.

She forced herself to calm down; her blood was still ringing. It didn’t take very long to. She’d manipulated the earth too much in one fight, and as her blood began to calm, the exhaustion snapped onto her chest and she, too, nearly collapsed. Her head felt empty.

Quickly, Samia shifted into her mortal form – a human who wore a mix of black leather and plate, her hair darker than her clothing and bangs sharp and flat across her eyebrows. Her whole body ached, and her head was spinning. She held it in her hands for a moment and simply breathed deep. She had to focus on helping the injuries. Her hands dropped.

A flash of grey caught her attention. She glanced up, and saw Rexxar’s hawk approach, twirling to land on the half-orc’s shoulder; he stood off to the side, alone with his bear, watching the brood with an unreadable expression. The two other drakes who had followed the retreating rogues landed in front of her.

“Well?”

“They disappeared into the arakkoas’ forest. With any luck, the birds will kill them.” One of the drakes said, panting.

“Doubtful,” Samia sighed. “Fine, then. Go to the cave and see how the hatchlings are faring.”

The drakes nodded and trotted off behind her.

Samia glanced at Rexxar, squinting. The half-orc had no reason to help them. He was friends with Baron Sablemane – not Sabellian. Samia’s father was careful with his true identity around the beastmaster; Rexxar had no idea that his comrade was a black dragon, and Deathwing’s son, nonetheless.

Samia had once met him before, as well, but like Sabellian, he didn’t know what she really was.

So there was no reason for him to help the brood.

Why had he?

“Thank you,” she called out. Samia found herself good with mortals – at least mortals who didn’t want to harm her family. Rexxar looked at her. “That was kind of you to help black dragons.”

“I do not tolerate mindless killing,” the half-orc replied. His bear – Samia could not remember its name – rubbed its large head up against Rexxar’s hand. “No matter what species they are.” He looked back at the cave, then at her. “I am glad I did. Hatchlings?” His voice was hoarse. She nodded. “Good. Spirit saw your defense before I did.” He must have meant the hawk.

She nodded at him. One of the injured drakes behind her groaned. Samia glanced back, and saw one of her brothers kneeling over the injured sister in human form.

“I may have a salve that could work for your siblings,” Rexxar said. She looked at him, surprised – but only nodded.

“You’ve been gone for a long time.”

“Wandering,” he replied. He slid his bow across his back. “But I thought it time to return; perhaps my time away has given my father’s mind some thought.” The half-orc looked out at the valley. “I thought to give greetings to the Baron, however.”

“Ah.” Samia shifted once.

“You are Samia.”

He’d recognized her; there was no point in denying who she was. “Yes.”

The half-orc made a low humming noise in his throat.

“I was not aware you were a wyrm.”

Samia sighed and rubbed at the gashes across her arms, feeling the slick blood there.

“The secret is out, then.” She looked back at the cave. One of the drakes was sitting at the entrance, and Alacian was hopping in front of him. At least he was alright, Samia thought.

“And Baron Sablemane is your father. I recall him saying as much, but maybe my memory is slacking.”

It was not so much as a question, but a statement. If Rexxar remembered her face from one, fleeting meeting some years before, then he would certainly remember Sablemane telling him about a daughter.

Samia looked at him quickly.

“Ah -” She shifted, awkward. Rexxar knew her true identity now – and if Sabellian had told him about his relation to her… the half-orc would have connected the dots. He was just waiting for her to confirm it.

She sighed and rubbed her face, remembering her hands were bloody only when she felt her fingers wet against her cheek. Samia scowled and dropped her hands again. “Yes. I am his daughter.” There was no use denying it. Sabellian would be angry with her; he’d be extremely careful about his identity – probably because of the stigma the black dragons had.

But Rexxar wasn’t hostile – he’d helped them. Sabellian couldn’t have seen that outcome.

Rexxar frowned. He didn’t say anything for a moment, only continued to pet the top of his bear’s head.

“Baron Sablemane is a black dragon, then.”

“Yes, he is.”

Rexxar lifted his hand from the bear. He looked thoughtful.

“That makes some amount of sense.”

Samia stared at him, confused at his lack of reaction. He just found out his friend was a dragon and had shrugged it off like it was nothing.

“You… don’t seem altogether surprised.”

“I had my suspicions.” He smiled as if enjoying a private joke or memory. “Dragonfire is difficult to come by, and he always had enough for all of his traps.”

Samia only squinted at him. She’d press his other “suspicions” later. Sabellian would be displeased to know his identity had been guessed.

The half-orc looked at the drakes. “You are all his children?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ve helped a friend’s family. But where is he?”

Samia hesitated. She looked at the drakes. Some were on their feet again, while others stayed down. The stench of blood and burnt flesh and earth was thick.

“He’s dealing with a new enemy of ours.” Samia looked back at the half-orc. “Beyond the Dark Portal. He should have returned by now.”

Samia felt very tired, then, and very worried. She knew something was wrong when she had spoken to Neltharaku; the rogues assaulting them was proof. The Black Prince must still be alive to have sent them, she thought.

And how was he alive? Had Sabellian not found him at all? Had the young Prince killed him?

Something must have happened. She hissed.

But she could do little on her own here. She had to protect the brood.

Unless she found Neltharaku – if the rogues hadn’t killed him – and convince him to stand guard.

Then she could follow her father, find the Black Prince…

“Maybe I could be of use.”

She turned to Rexxar.

“Let me help heal your siblings – then we can speak elsewhere of this enemy of my friend’s.”

Samia nodded, and they made their way to the drakes.

—-

Baron Sablemane looked up at Lion’s Landing, his arms crossed and his raptor-hide satchel heavy against his shoulder.

He stood on the outskirts of the great fort, at the cross where the dark forest met the beach. The dragon had only just shifted from dragon to human moments before; he’d flown high above Krasarang Wilds, unseeable below thanks to the thick canopy, before diving down some miles before the beach came into view to walk the path the rest of the way. He didn’t want the little mortals at the Alliance fort to see him coming.

Sablemane scratched at the side of his chin and eyed the fort with a studious look. There was some damage to the buildings and towers: pocket-marks of grey and red, obvious injuries from catapults. Judging by the numerous workers, bare-backed and sweating hard even in the sinking sun, who were milling about with large piles of lumber and repair tools, the fort was recuperating from some assault.

The dragon smiled slow to himself. Good. The fort was weakened. This might prove to be much easier.

He shifted his shoulders, the satchel swinging and clinking with its hidden treasures. The potions were complete and ready, and he was very proud of how they had turned out; the water had been an excellent binding agent, just as he had hoped, and the draught had curled and shook inside its glass container when they had finished brewing.

Sablemane did not think about what he’d heard when getting the water. That, he could do without; he had little time to mull over such… unfortunate things.

Now he just needed to get inside the fort itself and set them off.

He pulled the thick hood of his inconspicuous cloak, which hid the rest of his bright outfit, over his face. He had the advantage of being a human in this upcoming charade, but even then, the dragon wasn’t stupid enough to think he could waltz wherever he’d liked in the Keep. Sablemane needed the potions placed in every corner to insure every occupant felt their effects, lest a guard notice him walking around looking for his prize and alert the sleeping others.

Caution was key. He’d rather not have a harpoon in his flank as he flew from the Keep.

Sablemane made his way down the shore. The injured towers soon loomed in front of him. Some of the works and other assorted champions milling about gave him looks as he walked by; the dragon scowled. The heroes wore extravagant clothing like his own that he hid, and with his drab cloak he was a dark spot against the crowd.

Not for long, he thought.

A large building was up ahead. Guards in silver and blue armor flanked it as workers repaired the dents to the outer walls.

Sablemane hesitated. This could easily be his chance. He glanced over the short line of soldiers on guard, most of whose shoulders slumped in the heat. It was the end of their day, and they were tired and unawares. Excellent.

He made his way to the side of the building; his eyes were trained on one soldier in particular, who stood posted at the outer corner – a position Sablemane could easily exploit.

The dragon pulled back against the wall that was at junction to the one the soldier stood at. The stone rubbed up against his shoulder, rough, and pulled at the worn scales of his cloak, but he ignored it.

“Excuse me,” Sablemane called out. He deepened his voice, and made it shake. The soldier looked over at him. The dragon waved his hand, beckoning the human over. “Please, I require your help.”

The soldier kept staring. Sablemane fought back a scowl. Couldn’t the idiot hear?

The human glanced back at his comrade, some yards away, before heading over. Sablemane pulled back, turning so he was on the opposite side of the wall – and away from the other soldiers’ view.

The soldier, thankfully, followed.

“Yes?” It was a younger human, and his voice was unsure.

“Oh, thank you.” Sablemane smiled at him falsely. “How kind of you to come to the aid of a dear old man like myself.”

The soldier went to nod – but the dragon didn’t give him the chance to. With a quick uppercut he slammed his fist into the human’s face so hard the helmet caved in, and the soldier fell back. Sablemane snatched his hand out and grabbed onto the lion tabard before the human could fall into view of his comrades; the soldier was limp, dead-weight against Sablemane’s grip, but it was nothing to the dragon’s strength. Sablemane pulled him back and propped him up against the side of the fort.

He snorted and pulled off his cloak, his red and orange robe bright underneath. “Old man,” he murmured, abandoning his costumed voice. “Hardly.”

Sablemane tossed the garment to the side and eyed the silver and blue plate on the soldier. He abhorred plate. Too heavy and confining for spell-casting, but it would have to do. The outfit would help him become a bit more… uniform in the crowd and would allow him into places common Alliance were not allowed into, giving him a freer range to place potions. While the cloak had come in handy to hide his identity, it was, he knew, a tad conspicuous – judging by the looks he’d gotten walking in.

He dressed quickly. As expected, the plate was heavy against his shoulders; he fought down his growing aggravation at the costume by telling himself he’d be shedding it soon enough – and anyway, if it helped him catch his two quarries, so be it. His red and orange robe disappeared in smoke as he buckled the plate on; the outfit was, overall, a bit small, but at least it was secure.

The helmet was too crushed to wear, so he left it. No one would recognize him – though his eyes might be questionable.

Sablemane readjusted his satchel, huffed at how his costume clinked – how did plate-wearers deal with such a nuisance? - and stepped over the unconscious soldier’s body. His feet dragged up a trail in the sand as he made his way to the heart of Lion’s Landing to once again join the crowd.

No one so much as looked at him; Sablemane smirked, pleased. Never underestimate the invisibility of a common foot soldier.

The dragon stopped in the center of the complex. A smaller tower rose up a small rise to his left, and a thin pathway to the docks trailed out to his right. Up ahead was the largest building of the fort – a thick, manned white-stone structure of three levels that stood quiet, its back to the sea, strong and proud. Alliance through and through, even in architecture. Sablemane rolled his eyes. They were all very fussy, the Alliance.

But as far as he could tell, it was the best guess where the whelp might be with his human prince, judging by the surplus of guards that stood straight-backed against the high outposts up along the higher walls.

Sablemane hummed once. He took another look around; he had little trouble looking over the heads of mortals who walked by, thanks to his height.

The courtyard was a good enough start, he decided. Then he would place one at the tower, the docks -

He stopped. His eyes narrowed. He’d caught a scent, vague in the sharp air – was he fooling himself, or had he smelled dragon? And not the Black Prince, no – this was another.

Sablemane scanned the thinning crowd. The scent was gone. He saw no one that stuck out.

Perhaps he’d imagined it. He stared for another moment, eyes still in slits, before forcing himself to relax.

He needed to be hasty with the potions. The sun was nearly down and the sky shifting into bright pinks and orange, the final death-throes. A soldier skulking around in the dark to different locations would be questioned; he didn’t want that risk, though the dark would do well when he escaped with his catch.

The dragon moved from the thinning crowd to wander near the stable. Watching to make sure he wasn’t seen, he undid the flap of his satchel, reached inside and grabbed a vial. It was cold and shook slightly in his hand; swirling inside was a thick, moving mist. The potion was more air than liquid, now, and would move quickly with the sea breeze to spread over like a wildfire over Lion’s Landing and its inhabitants.

Sablemane waved his hand over the cork. A bright but dormant ember crackled to life atop the draught. The dragon nodded to himself, then slid the potion into the outer wall of the stable, right under the dip of the sloppily-built rain chute.

Good. One placed, and five to go.

The dragon fixed the location of the ember in his mind as he made his way to the next location – the tower. The plan was to have all vials placed and the embers, magically enhanced with the breath of dragon-flame, able to be lit from a distance with some simple magic to burst open the glass, releasing the mist. And judging by how the breeze flicked at his hair, he wouldn’t have to worry about it not spreading.

Sablemane was very pleased with himself.

And so he continued to place his souvenirs for the unknowing mortals: one in the tower, one near the docks, one in the small inner room of the largest keep, one on the keep’s first floor…

And no one questioned his trail. No one even noticed the one older soldier milling about with his head bent and his black hair falling against his face, hiding his eyes, his satchel growing less and less heavy.

Sablemane snorted as he rose from placing the fifth in the hallway of the Keep’s first floor. Mortals were so easy to fool – assume their form and you were suddenly no foe, but a friend.

Idiots.

One vial remained. He’d spotted a stairway on the immediate left of entering from the inner courtyard of the Keep. Perhaps a vial on the second floor would be good; the one he’d just placed would surely sweep up into the upper levels, but it never hurt to be cautious.

Sablemane went from the hallway and tried to walk up the stairs – but the soldier there struck out his lance to bar him from entry.

The dragon forced down a scowl.

“Is there a problem?”

“Only His Majesty’s personal guard is allowed beyond this point,” the draenei said. “You should be knowing this.”

Sablemane slid his eyes upwards.

Oh, good. His suspicions had been confirmed.

If the Royal Guard was stationed up there, there was obviously royals there to guard. The little human prince, for instance.

“Soldier?”

“What? Ah. My apologies.” Sablemane leveled his eyes on the draenei and the officer noticeably leaned back at the look. “Must have slipped my mind.”

The draenei nodded, but still looked at Sablemane with open wariness. The dragon went back to the hallway.

He took the last vial from the pouch. No matter. The upper floors would be reached by the potency of the potion. He placed the last draught on the opposite corner of the hallway, then moved back into the center.

He leaned, almost casually, against the wall, and smiled. The potions were set and ready, and so was he.

He pulled a thick mask soaked with another potion to negate the effects of the potion from his satchel, tied it around the lower half of his face, careful to watch for any mortals who might pass through and see him. But there were none; oh, how lucky he was to have come after a battle, when everyone was milling about with repairs outside! He smirked below the mask, closed the flap of his bag, and shut his eyes.

Sablemane outstretched his hand, palm down. He focused on the burning embers he’d placed on each of the potion’s corks. He found them, there in the center of his mind’s eye, and concentrated on their positions, on their flame, and soon all seven embers were at his command to manipulate.

The dragon’s hand began to curl into a fist and the flames in his mind, a flame for each vial, began to strengthen and well up with pressure as he focused.

And, with a quick crushing gesture of his hand, the six flames shot forth. The muffled sound of the potions on the first floor shot out, sharp against the stone walls.

Sablemane dropped his hand and opened his eyes. He stood from his lean. From the corner of the hallway drifted thick, white mist from the potions; it curled forward as if it had a mind of its own, its hazy edges stretching out like claws as it sought its victims to shove into sleep. It drifted passed his feet harmlessly and continued onward, only hurried by the sea wind from the open archways.

How easy. He was almost disappointed.

Without haste, the dragon began unbuckling the heavy plate; smoke curled around him, thick, and his red and orange outfit, complete with snake-shoulders, reappeared against his form. Sablemane rolled his shoulders back.

He smiled as the first metallic thunk of a falling soldier resounded heavily against the stone walls.

Now to find his prizes.

—-

Anduin focused hard on the book in front of him.

The mighty dragons, who had fled from the ever-advancing march of mortal societies, found themselves too evenly matched against the dark magics of the Legi-

The prince sighed and looked up at the ceiling. The words were just blurring together, as they had been for the past hour since he’d left his room.

He started drumming his fingers on the desk. He was in one of the spare rooms on the third floor, only a couple doors down from his own room; it’d been made into a haphazard library, filled mostly with medical books or Pandaren scrolls detailing the continent’s fauna, flora, and landscape. But there was some interesting historical reading, like the book he’d randomly plucked off the shelf when going inside to cool off after the argument – Aegwynn and the Dragon Hunt, coincidentally enough.

Anduin shook his head. He had enough thoughts about dragons to deal with.

He was still angry, despite how much he wished he wasn’t. Maybe he should go back and try to make peace.

Anduin ran a hand down his face and rubbed his eyes with his pointer finger and thumb. His head was lolled back so far as he looked back up at the ceiling that his hair was falling back; his legs were outstretched in front of him, lazy, but he didn’t care. No one was here to see him and chide him for being in such a “rude” position – rude for a prince, at least. His guards, which had followed him from the room and now flanked this door, couldn’t see him, anyway.

He exhaled loud and slow through his nose. Why should he go back to his room? Wrathion was being stubborn – as usual – and refused to see sense or even consider outside advice.

But the Black Prince was always like that, Anduin reminded himself. He scrunched his eyebrows together and glared at the ceiling. Of course Anduin himself would have to be the one to prompt an apology – or not even an apology, but rather a smoothing back of their aggravation at each other – and not the dragon. Wrathion was never one to say he was sorry.

The Black Prince was more than aggravating – he could be completely infuriating.

“An hour or two more won’t hurt,” Anduin murmured. He shook his head again and looked back down at the book, his back numb from leaning hard against the uncomfortable wooden chair. The two front legs of the front clacked back down as Anduin righted himself up.

He stared at the open book; a red sash indicated the last page he had read – not like he really remembered what he’d read at all, his mind too taken up with the problem of the dragon in the next room, and the dragon who they had argued over.

Anduin flicked half-heartedly through the pages, blinked hard, and closed the book. Dust plumed up from the paper.

He looked outside from the window next to the desk. The sun was only a crescent below the canopy, now, a dark red. The room was lit with the heavy color, and sharp shadows arced out from underneath every corner. It would be dark soon.

… Maybe he should go back. What was the point of another hour to cool off? Wrathion would still be moody and Anduin himself would be, too. And he was starving. A peace offering of food might work.

Something below shattered, muffled from the distance. Anduin glanced at his feet. The cooks must have dropped something in the kitchens.

The prince rose and stretched up his arms, his back tingling, and gave a satisfied sigh as his hands dropped to his sides again. He fluffed his hair back into place and went to grab his cane against the desk when a muffled thunk sounded from below. He didn’t think anything of it, at first, too preoccupied with thoughts of what he was going to say to Wrathion when he got back to the room – until more thumps and slams started.

Anduin startled. He looked at the floor with alarm.

What was going on down there?

A dark form fell across the window. Anduin jumped, looked to see what it was – and saw the scene unfolding outside. White mist, as thick as cotton and as fluid as water, curled outwards from every direction in the courtyard below; it bloomed from the tower, from the stables, from the smaller building closer to the forest. Anduin almost tripped over himself in his stumble to get a closer look out of the window.

Where the mist surged, Alliance fell. They simply collapsed as if punched and did not get up again. Horses on leads fell, and their handlers with them. Gryphons circling above fell – it must have been one falling that had streaked by his window to catch his attention. Two shamans near the tower on the rise with some quick thinking tried to summon wind, totems shearing into existence – but the mist reached them too quickly and they collapsed too. Shouts of alarm started and silenced as quickly as they had begun.

Anduin’s eyes were wide. Were – no. They weren’t dead. They were asleep. Even from this far up he could see some of the closer champions’ chests rise and fall.

Was this a Horde trick? He didn’t recall hearing about the Forsaken Apothecaries here on Pandaria.

Or could it possibly be Sabellian?

Anduin’s throat tightened. He had to get back to Wrathion. Right now.

The thunks from below, he recalled. The mist must have been in the Keep.

“Guards -”

He turned – only in time to see his two guards flanking the door crumple, and see the mist, like a shy dog, peek around the door frame.

Anduin shot up a shield. He was too slow. Even before the mist reached him his vision began to sway violently back and forth, and he stumbled forward, his grip on the cane loosening. It fell with a clang, but the sound was faraway, distant, heard through a fog.

The entire room began to swirl. He felt like he’d tripped again, but he wasn’t sure what way was up and what way was down. His vision started to blacken. His hands found purchase against something – the wall, maybe – and he tried to hold himself up, tried to talk a step forward – he needed to get to Wrathion, he needed to see what was going on, who this was, what was happening - but his knees gave way beneath him and as he hit the floor, the deep slumber of the mist overtook him.

—-

Wrathion groaned.

His mind was a murk; he could hardly think.

Where was he? What had happened?

The dragon couldn’t feel his body; it felt as if he was not weightless, but heavy, dead-weight against the blackness. Every bit of him was numb. Did he even have a body? He groaned again.

“Wake up, little prince.”

The voice was distorted in Wrathion’s haze. There was a pressure against -… was that his face? He couldn’t tell - and it shook what felt like his head shake back and forth.

The dragon struggled to regain his mind. He tried to remember what happened.

He’d been - … yes, he’d been alone in Anduin’s room. Left had gone. He’d been lounging on the chair, mulling over Sabellian and the human prince when he’d heard thunks and bumps around the Keep.

Then there was mist, white and thick. He recalled little else but passing out.

Wrathion groaned again. His body was still numb, but he was slowly starting to regain consciousness – at a sluggish pace, nonetheless. A pang of frustration welled behind his eyes.

His head was shaken back and forth again.

“Wake up.”

With a hiss, Wrathion managed to open one of his eyes with great effort, though it did not help much – his vision was unfocused. Everything was a blur, mere smears of shifting color. Red and orange swayed in front of him.

The prince tried to speak, but his words caught in his mouth as a slurred grumble.

“Yes. Very intelligent.” A pressure pulled against his hair and a dim pain on his scalp as it was pulled back. Wrathion grimaced, though even then his muscles were slow to respond. “Now, do wake. I have little time to waste.”

Wrathion’s focus snapped into place as the voice cleared.

Wait.

His other eye opened and fixed on the red and orange in front of him. It was still blurry, but the form was slowly becoming clearer, just as the voice had -

Sablemane – Sabellian - stood in front of him, eyes lidded and bored. He held Wrathion up by the younger dragon’s shoulder, pushing him against the wall; the Black Prince’s legs hung at least three feet from the floor.

“Now, don’t scare yourself,” Sablemane drawled as Wrathion’s eyes went wide – he was unable to do anything else, for his body was still numb. “That will make this harder for the both of us.”

No. Wait. Sabellian couldn’t be here. This was a nightmare, surely. The elder dragon couldn’t have – he - this was the Alliance’s main fort on Pandaria! He couldn’t -

The mist. The smoke. The sudden sleep, the sleep and numbness that still clung to him even now. It had to have been Sabellian’s doing.

This wasn’t a nightmare. Sabellian really was right in front of him.

His right arm began to sour with pain. For a brief moment he was in the cave again, and Sabellian’s hand was twisting his arm, and Nasandria was cutting and cutting – panic welled up in his chest and he tried to kick out, but only managed to get his knees to twitch.

Sablemane watched him with open amusement.

Where was Left? Where was – he stopped. Left was long gone by now, and even if she was here, she’d be as out cold as he had been a moment ago.

Anduin had been right. Sabellian had come back sooner than Wrathion had wished, before his plans with the chains could be carried through.

Wrathion hated Anduin for being right.

Wrathion had nothing. He couldn’t even speak. No. This couldn’t happen again. Please.

“A decent attempt. Now -” He plucked Wrathion’s dagger from his waist and slammed it forward; Wrathion flinched, waited for pain – but Sablemane had only stabbed it through excess cloth from his shirt to pin him to the wall. “Let’s talk for a moment, shall we? Though -” He looked Wrathion over. “Doubtful you’ll be able to speak at all. My potions worked better than expected, it seems. I suspected some numbness in my victims, but paralysis? Wonderful. A thanks to one of your champions who mentioned the waters of the Vale for an ingredient.”

Wrathion stared. His champio-?

Wait. Sabellian had spoken to them?

Wrathion tried to glare; was he the one who told them about Wrathion’s little lie?

“A naïve lot,” Sablemane commented. “Though some may not follow you now.” He saw Wrathion’s weak glare. “I would apologize, but unfortunately for you I’m not very sorry for it.”

The other dragon let go of him, and Wrathion simply hung on the wall. Sharp pins and needles began to flicker against his skin as the rest of his body struggled to wake. Anger and fear gripped his stomach, sour.

“Now. I was going to speak you to later, farther from here, but your lack of voice has presented an opportunity for me to talk without being interrupted by your crying. And besides -” He smiled. “No one will be bothering us. I believe they’re too busy dreaming.”

Wrathion tried to speak again, though all that came out was a low whine.

“Honestly, is there any use trying? Shut up.” The dragon crossed his arms and regarded Wrathion for a moment, his arms crossed; the Black Prince kept trying to move, desperate to get his body to wake, but it was still numb and lifeless. He hung there like a dead piece of meat.

“I will make this quick. My daughter found what purified you in the Badlands.”

Wrathion stopped trying to struggle.

Sablemane was squinting at him; his orange eyes looked the Black Prince over with some scrutiny. “It tore her arm off. She suggested some other gruesome ideas that may have resulted in you.”

They’d – they’d found it?

It tore the drake’s arm off?

The first memory of being ripped apart pulsed in the back of his mind. Wrathion tried to force it down before he felt sick; he already felt panicked with Sabellian sitting right on front of him. He didn’t need worse memories reappearing.

Wrathion stared at him. Maybe he was bluffing.

But then again, Nasandria wasn’t with him.

“You look like you have no idea what I’m talking about.”

And honestly, Wrathion didn’t.

Because he was in the egg when the Reds experimented on him. He didn’t know what, exactly, they’d done. He remembered being… created… but little else.

He had not told Sabellian what had cured him when tortured in the Kun-lai cave because he didn’t want Sabellian to know any information about it at all – he neglected to mention he had no idea what it was that cured him other than Titan technology. He’d been too proud to admit as much.

Sablemane eyed him.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” It wasn’t a question anymore. Sablemane raised a brow – then laughed. Wrathion’s stomach twisted with hate.

“And here I thought you knew exactly what kind of experiment you were! Ha.” Sablemane laughed once again. “Well, alright. I’ll share what my daughter found with you.” He leaned forward. “She believes you’re created from three separate entities, pulled apart and stitched together by that machine.” He grabbed Wrathion’s chin and forced the younger dragon to look at him right in the face. “Yes. How very special that makes you. Purification for the price of being some sort of unnatural abomination.” Sablemane let go of his face. “I wonder if you had any idea, though I’m sure you did.”

Wrathion felt like he’d sunken into himself. Where there had been anger in his gut a second ago was now nausea and a fight to control himself.

His nightmares of his creation often included being torn apart and fused together.

If what Sablemane was saying was true – Wrathion forced himself to take a deep breath. No. He wasn’t an abomination. It was worth it. He was pure. He was uncorrupted, unlike the brother that stood before him. He was…

“My elder brother would have loved to study you; he did the same stitching of his own creations. Have you heard of Chromaggus? Or perhaps Chromatus? No? Well, how unfortunate.” Sablemane commented.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I wanted to confirm Nasandria’s idea, and apparently I have.” Sablemane snorted. “’Son of Deathwing.’ Hah. I wonder how many fathers and mothers you actually have if you’re the product of three separate beings?” He huffed in amusement, though his mocking smile soon fell from his face. “But I digress. I have too much fun poking fun at your expense. You see, Black Prince, I’ve found what’s purified you – but it’s only harmed my daughter and is of no use to me.” He raised a brow at Wrathion. “Do you know what else your champions told me?”

Apparently everything, Wrathion thought. Stupid, idiotic champions -

“They told me you’re very interested in the Titans. So I still have some use for you before I bite your head off. Surely there’s something else by our creators that can help my family. Ah. Also, I would advise you to be very, very helpful, whelp. Torture did not sway you as much as I’d liked it to last time, but I have a bargaining chip now.”

Sablemane moved back. Wrathion stared. Propped up against the side of the bed was Anduin, limp, his head drooped to his chest.

The elder dragon smiled as Wrathion’s eyes twitched. “I see I have your attention. Good. If you do not cooperate with helping me, I’ll rip your prince’s throat out. Understood?”

Sablemane went to say something else – but the elder dragon stopped. His mouth closed, and his eyes dilated to thin slits. He looked behind his shoulder, and Wrathion followed his gaze, but there was nothing there but the empty hallway.

“Let us relocate,” Sablemane said. His voice had a vague tinge of wariness. Had he heard something? Smelled something? Wrathion couldn’t even smell at all with his fogged senses. He glanced back at Anduin. The blond prince was fast asleep, unaware of the two dragons in the room.

Sablemane spread his hand out. Fire in the form of spikes shot from his fingers and exploded against the wall; bits of stone and other debris went flying and Wrathion closed his eyes, unable to move his head away from the explosion. Where the glassless window had been was soon an enlarged, smoldering crater, open to the sea air.

Sablemane grabbed Anduin, hauled him up, plucked the dagger from Wrathion’s clothes and grabbed him, too, before he fell – and then Sablemane chucked him out of the hole.

Wrathion fell hard against the roof outside. His back was so numb he felt no impact. The sky was dark and starry. He began to slide down.

The dragon panicked – the fall from the third floor would be a large one – and shifted into whelp form, thinking of the prospect of flight-… only to remember his body was unresponsive and his wings wouldn’t move just as much as his other limbs.

Smoke curled from the opening. Sablemane went through it – the smoke came from him – and shifted into his own dragon form, holding Anduin in one of his paws.

The roof groaned underneath the enormous weight. Bits of stone fell away and fell passed Wrathion to fall into the hard sand below.

The elder dragon snatched him up with his other paw just as Wrathion found purchase against the sliding roof.

Sabellian’s wings unfolded; with a great heave of the dragon’s wings, they shot up into the sky. Below were the still forms of the Alliance, gripped by the effects of the potion.

Sabellian was flying fast, faster than a casual pace, like he was trying to outrun something, or someone. Wrathion tried to squirm in the dragon’s claws, but could do nothing but stare glumly over at Anduin in the other paw as they disappeared above the canopy, cloaked by the darkness.


	12. Chapter 12

Wrathion came to when a pressure squeezed up behind his back.

He yawned and opened one eye, exhaustion sticking to its corners. He blinked once, hard, when his vision refused to rid itself of its sleepy blur.

With a dullness he took in his surroundings. He was sitting, legs sprawled out, in a shallow cave, a mere indent in the earthy rock – rock more dirt than stone. Vines crawled down the sloped walls, intertwining like locked hands, and stretched out at the bottom as if they were reaching out to grab his legs. The smell of thick earth was heavy. The scent would have been comforting if Wrathion didn’t notice that he was tied up.

One of the vines was wrapped tight around his waist, buckling his left arm close and leaving his cast arm free. Wrathion scowled, his exhaustion sweeping away. He was tied up like some sort of hunter’s caught game.

The vine outstretched behind him, tying him to something else. Wrathion craned his head back.

Anduin, head slouched to his chest, had his back to Wrathion’s, and the vine was around him, too, tying them both together.

“Oh, now, this is ridiculous,” Wrathion complained aloud. He looked around. Sabellian was nowhere in sight. The Black Prince hissed under his breath.

They had flown for an hour at a harsh western direction as Sabellian had fled Lion’s Landing. Wrathion had been able to move for the latter half hour – though it had not amounted to much but being squeezed harder in Sabellian’s already-tight grip as he’d tried to squirm out from underneath the elder dragon’s claws.

He must have fallen back asleep. Idiot, he thought. Wrathion looked around again. The opening of the small cave was just to his side, a yard away, halfway hidden to the outside by hanging leaves and vines. The dragon curled a lip. He couldn’t see through the curtain of foliage.

Wrathion leaned forward – 0r at least tried to. The vine around his waist stretched and crackled and pulled Anduin forward with him, and the blond prince groaned.

The other prince was too much of dead-weight for the Black Prince to move very far. He grumbled and leaned forward an inch more, craning his head around the hanging vines; the dragon could just make out an enormous tree trunk that nearly blocked his whole field of vision. Beyond that, hazy in the dark, Wrathion saw tall rugged silver that swept high, higher than he could look up. It must have been the Wall, separating Krasarang from the Dread Wastes.

They were near the edge, then. Wrathion sighed and slouched back. He continued to eye the entrance.

Perhaps he could wriggle out of his bonds before Sabellian returned. The Black Prince glanced at the vines around them and tested the strength by trying to outstretch his tied arm -… but the vine was tied too tight, and was too thick, thicker than the pythons of these Wilds.

He sighed impatiently, then glanced behind his shoulder.

“Anduin,” he murmured, low enough to be unheard by anyone who may be outside – Sabellian, for instance. Wrathion moved his back against Anduin’s once, then twice, jostling him. “Anduin Wrynn.”

Anduin groaned again, louder than before. Wrathion moved up against him for the third time, more insistent.

“Stop it,” the prince grumbled. His voice was thick with sleep.

“Oh, good. You’re awake.”

Anduin mumbled something incoherent. His head continued to droop down to his chest.

Wrathion frowned, annoyed at Anduin’s lack of response, and bumped his back up against Anduin’s again. The prince exhaled loud from his nose.

“What?”

Wrathion said nothing. Anduin looked up. Wrathion couldn’t see his face, only the back of his head, but he could tell by the way the blond’s shoulders stiffened just the slightest amount as he looked left and right that the Alliance prince had realized what their situation was.

“Now, I know this looks bleak,” Wrathion started. “But -”

Slowly, Anduin turned his head back to Wrathion. His eyes were set in a glower, his brows tilted down, and he frowned back at the Black Prince with such an expression of I told you so that the dragon stopped mid-sentence at the insulting glare.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that!”

Anduin continued to glare.

Wrathion scoffed.

“Preach at me all you’d like, Anduin Wrynn, but -”

“I told you this would happen,” Anduin interrupted with a snap. Though his voice was slogged with sleep the normal aggravation he spoke with was clearly evident. Wrathion went to speak but Anduin continued to. “Where are we?! This was Sabellian’s work, wasn’t it?”

By the way Anduin was looking at Wrathion, his last statement was not a question. Wrathion huffed.

“First, lower your voice before you attract any unwanted attention. Second, I will have you know that yes, it is Sabellian -”

Anduin’s glare deepened and he looked away, his shoulders stiff against Wrathion’s.

“I told you,” Anduin muttered. “But of course you didn’t listen. As always.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.”

“I’m being dramatic? You have no room to talk about being dramatic, Wrathion.”

Wrathion scowled and shoved his back against Anduin’s as a retort. Anduin responded with his own shove.

The Black Prince hissed under his breath and turned his head away from Anduin. He eyed the opposite wall, eyes trailing around the vines, and took a deep, huffing breath to calm himself.

“We’re in Krasarang,” Wrathion mumbled. Anduin responded with a low mm that sounded less that enthusiastic. “You can be angry at me later, prince, but for now I would really like to be out of these rope – ah – vines.”

Anduin glanced down at their bindings. The vine grew taut around Wrathion’s waist as Anduin pulled his chest forward, and the dragon grunted. The vines loosened again at the sound and Anduin propped his back up against Wrathion’s again.

“They’re tight.”

“Thank you for that excellent observation. I couldn’t have figured that out myself.”

Anduin craned his head back and shot Wrathion a glare before looking away again. “Can you burn them?”

Wrathion grinned. “Oh! Yes.”

Anduin’s hair brushed up against the back of Wrathion’s as the blond prince nodded.

The Black Prince craned his neck down, and moved his cast arm away from his chest to get a better angle. From the corner of his eye he saw Anduin look out to the entrance.

Wrathion pulled at the center of his chest, the source of his flame, and shot it through his mouth; airy fire drifted slower than he would have liked from his open jaw and began to burn at the first layer of vine.

But it was too slow. Wrathion scowled. The vine must have been plucked recently; it wasn’t brittle, not easily flammable like rope would have been. Where scorch marks should have been as his fire touched the vibrant green were instead ugly yell0w-brown bruises.

“Wrathion. Stop.”

The dragon’s jaw clacked shut. He looked at Anduin. “I can -”

Anduin shot him a look and Wrathion stopped talking. The human gestured his head to the entrance. In a whisper, he said: “I hear someone outside.”

Wrathion glanced up at the entrance. The shallow cave went quiet. Outside chirped crickets and the occasional, muffled cry of a night-bird.

The Black Prince heard nothing. He went to snap at Anduin when a voice came from beyond the curtain of vines.

“How sick are you, exactly?”

Wrathion stiffened; it was Sabellian. The elder dragon sounded distant, though coming steadily closer.

There was a muted static-like sound.

“That’s little to worry about. You can easily make the rest of the flight over the sea.” A pause. The static began again. Wrathion’s ears twitched. What was that obnoxious noise? “No. What a stupid idea. I will heal you when you arrive if your fire sputters out completely.” Another pause. Static. A huff. “Yes. Dealing with these two brats will be easy on my own, but backup is always necessary. I am playing this game with caution.”

Anduin looked back at Wrathion. The Black Prince continued staring straight ahead, transfixed on where Sabellian’s voice was coming from.

“Wrathion,” Anduin murmured. Wrathion hardly heard him. Anduin jostled him. “The vines. If we’re quick -”

The Black Prince jumped and looked away at the vines. “Oh, yes. Of course.” Anduin’s eyes began to grow vaguely concerned. Wrathion rolled his eyes, opened his mouth and drew fire again. The vines began to smolder after a few moments – longer than Wrathion would have liked, as his chest began to grow light with the continual stream of flame – and -

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Wrathion’s mouth shut and his head snapped over. Sabellian, in his human form, walked in from the entrance, pushing away the hanging vines from his face, the brittle leaves crackling underneath his feet. One of his hands was flapping the satchel at his waist closed.

The elder dragon sighed with great bravado. “I’d had hoped you would have stayed asleep for longer -”

Wrathion shot a targeted flame from his already-heated mouth.

Sablemane ducked and the fireball burst against the wall.

“That was rude,” Sablemane commented with a huff, straightening himself out. “No, don’t try that again,” the dragon added, as Wrathion curled his lips back. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt.” His eyes flickered to Anduin.

Wrathion exhaled with a growl, sagging back against the blond prince and lowering his lips. Smoke plumed from his throat.

Sablemane snorted.

“Rude is snatching me away in the night and expecting me to be compliant!” Wrathion complained. He struggled against the vines, growled once in aggravation, then went still again. “Release these bonds.”

Sablemane watched him struggle. Wrathion noticed the look of amusement on the other dragon’s face and his chest lit with anger.

“Of course you’ll be compliant; you just were a moment ago. And no. I won’t release you.” He sounded bored.

Without waiting for a reply Sablemane looked over at Anduin.

“And yes, hello, young prince. No need to glare at me with such disdain. I can assure you that a simple look from your pale face doesn’t stir any fear in me.”

“I demand you let us go at once.”

Sablemane raised a brow and glanced at Wrathion. “Is the human prince stupid?”

Wrathion went to reply but Anduin was quicker. “I have a name. It’s Anduin Wrynn. I -”

“I know what your name is. I just don’t care.”

Anduin drooped back against Wrathion. The Black Prince was glowering at the other dragon.

“I tend to agree with my dull friend here,” Wrathion said, dropping his glower as his voice took on the smooth courtesy reserved mostly for wooing his champions. There was simply no conceivable way he could burn the fresh vines, pulpy with water and thus more resistant to his flame, quick enough with Sabellian standing right in front of him, and he obviously couldn’t fight the dragon tied up. Maybe his regular charm could work. “Perhaps we could simply talk this -”

“I think not. I saw what ‘talking’ did for me before.” Sablemane looked at Anduin. “Two bolts in my shoulder and a son dead for good measure. No. I believe I am done being distracted by pleasantries.”

Wrathion scowled. “I will have my Blacktalons come after you,” the Black Prince snapped. Good, he thought. Sabellian didn’t want to play nice, and neither did he. “They encompass every inch of Pandaria. Are you foolish enough to think you can hide with their Prince again?”

Sabellian raised a brow. “Oh? Hm. A minor wrench in my plans, I suppose.”

Wrathion allowed himself a smirk. In this quiet cave, he could easily contact Left, or any of the other Agents close by. And then -

“But I believe you’re forgetting about my sway over you, Black Prince.” Sablemane nodded his head to Anduin. “I do hope you remember what I warned you.”

Wrathion’s smirk wobbled. “You’re clearly bluffing. I’m -”

Sablemane snapped his hand forward and grabbed Anduin by the hair so quickly Wrathion hardly had time to jump in surprise. Sablemane’s other hand curled around the blond prince’s throat and Anduin jerked back, but the dragon held him fast; Wrathion went still.

“Are you sure I’m bluffing?” Sablemane asked coolly.

Anduin grunted lowly; Wrathion couldn’t see from his angle, but the other dragon must have been digging his claws into the blond’s neck.

“I care little about this prince’s life. He’s of no use to me but to be able to manipulate you. Now. Do you want to take the gamble of my supposed ‘bluff’ or not?”

Sablemane and Wrathion stared at one another. Wrathion’s smirk was gone.

Slowly, Wrathion shook his head. Sablemane smiled almost pleasantly and let go of Anduin’s throat and hair, and the blond prince coughed.

“Good.”

Wrathion scowled.

“And if I do find you’ve contacted your ants, I will tear both the prince’s arms off. Do we have an understanding?”

“You won’t know if I’ve contacted them or not,” Wrathion replied, struggling to latch on to some semblance of control of the situation that was spiraling out of his hands. Being snatched up by Sabellian at Lion’s Landing had felt like a foggy dream, but now that the effects of the potion had worn off with all of its daze that had muddied his head, the situation had only worsened in its reality.

Being kidnapped once was shameful enough. Being kidnapped twice? Pathetic.

His right arm began to throb. No, he thought. He couldn’t afford to start to panic as he had in Anduin’s room when under the effects of the potion. Sabellian may have grabbed him, but this would not end in pain as it had in the Kun-lai cave, even pain that was not directed to him, but the other prince at his back.

Sablemane shrugged, nonchalant. “I will see and smell them, and I will keep the human prince close to me. How well can your ants attack me without the human being harmed if I have my claws ready to rip his arms from their sockets?”

Wrathion went silent. Sablemane rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, Anduin Wrynn -” he stressed the name with great mocking “- how did you throw in your lot with this little monster? It amazes me.”

“He isn’t a monster,” Anduin replied defensively. Sablemane chuckled without humor. Wrathion felt his chest constrict. Anduin didn’t hear about the other dragon had said about what he’d learned of in the Badlands. He didn’t know that Wrathion’s nightmares were no nightmares at all, but realities. That he was made of – no. He didn’t want to remember.

Anduin Wrynn could not know. No one could.

“But that’s besides the point. This has gone too far, and it needs to end before it gets worse.”

Wrathion relaxed. Anduin had spoken before Sabellian had gotten the chance to.

Anduin shifted against Wrathion. “You’ve attacked an Alliance fort, and my father -”

“Oh, yes. The King of Stormwind. I saw him having a nice doze as I searched for the both of you.” Sablemane smoothed down his facial hair with his thumb and pointer finger in a quick, secondary motion. “Though I left him alone; don’t look so worried.” The dragon paused in mock thoughtfulness. “Hm. Tell me, little prince: how will your father know where to look if he does not know who took you?”

He had a point. Wrathion cursed to himself.

Anduin said nothing. He must have realized, too.

Sablemane shook his head and glanced at the bruises Wrathion’s fire had caused on the vines.

“Now, sit there and be quiet. I don’t want to have to tell you to shut up over and over.”

He turned and, crossing his arms, looked out of the entrance with his back to the two princes.

Wrathion squinted.

… That was it?

He shifted, trying to roll his shoulders back but finding he couldn’t because of Anduin being pressed up so close that he could even feel the human’s heart beating against his spine.

He’d assumed Sabellian would have started questioning him about the Titan technology he so desperately needed to purify his remaining brood – if the brood was still alive, of course, Wrathion thought.

What was Sabellian waiting for?

He watched quietly as the other dragon looked out the entrance. Sabellian seemed to be in no hurry – which was odd, Wrathion mused, as the elder dragon’s flight had initially been quick.

There was also the question of why they were still in Krasarang. Surely this wasn’t the spot Sabellian wanted to hide in, Wrathion realized.

Sabellian was stalling.

But for what?

A thought occurred to him.

“What hurried you off at Lion’s Landing?” Wrathion asked. Sablemane continued to look ahead.

“Nothing, save for the idea that the mortals could wake and find me there.”

Wrathion didn’t believe that. Sabellian’s narrowed eyes, the way he looked so quickly over his shoulder there in Anduin’s room – something had caught his attention.

“Was it perhaps your Old Gods speaking to you?” Wrathion quipped. Sablemane looked back at him, glaring.

“No. Though I’m sure you would wish it were the opposite so your witch hunt could have meaning, I’m sure.”

“Wrathion,” Anduin muttered. “Stop.”

“I’m only asking him a simple question.”

“Wrathion.”

The Black Prince sighed and leaned hard against Anduin’s back. The blond prince made a low noise, but otherwise stayed still. Anduin was right, Wrathion supposed; better to stay silent and scheme than poke more insults at the dragon who’d just threatened to dismember the Alliance prince.

“Very well. Where do you plan to take m - us?”

“Elsewhere.” The other dragon was looking out at the entrance again, tilting his head up, eyes squinted as if searching for something up in the trees.

That had at least confirmed Wrathion’s suspicions that this was just a stop.

The cave went quiet again. Sablemane continued to stand at the entrance. Agitation was abuzz around the elder dragon through the stiffness of his pose and the way his crossed hands tapped impatiently against his upper arms.

Wrathion turned away. Sablemane was too distracted with – whatever he was worried about to train the rest of his attention on the two princes.

Good. It gave the Black Prince some time to think.

He looked at the wall of vines in front of him again, and stretched out his legs, which had begun to cramp, arcing his back against Anduin’s and ignoring the grunt of protest from the other prince as the blond was pushed back.

Sabellian wanted Wrathion to work with him to find Titan technology to purify his family with Anduin as a bargaining tool. The dragon sighed through his teeth.

What was he supposed to do? He had no idea if he had found anything like the thing that had purified him here in Pandaria!

Granted, he had no idea what the thing in the Badlands had been. He flickered his eyes to Sablemane before looking back at the wall. The thing had torn the other drake’s arm off, anyway; if there was just another copy of the same technology here, no doubt it would do the same.

The Black Prince grumbled.

He wondered if Left had secured the chains yet -… but dismissed the idea immediately. No; of course she hadn’t. It’d only been a handful of hours since he’d asked her to go to Mogu’shan Vaults, though it felt like days. Not like he could use the chains, tied up like he was, though. His right hand flexed, and he grimaced at the crackling pain in his cast.

“You need to help him.”

Wrathion flicked his eyes back, tilting his head just slightly to look behind at Anduin. The blond prince was looking straight ahead, but his head drooped. He’d only just woken up from the potion, Wrathion remembered; it must have still been clinging to him.

“I seem to have no choice, Prince Anduin,” Wrathion murmured, low enough so that Sablemane couldn’t hear. He cast a quick look over to the elder dragon, but his brother hadn’t moved, and did not seem to know they were speaking. The Black Prince looked back at Anduin. “Though you do have some experience in being kidnapped by dragons. Perhaps you have some idea on how to remedy this situation?”

Anduin turned to glare.

“What? Onyxia was his sister. There must be some similarities, surely.”

“I was ten years old,” Anduin whispered hoarsely, his voice rising just a hair. “I couldn’t do very much.”

“Pity.”

“You were kidnapped by Sabellian before. Maybe you have an idea on how to ‘remedy this situation.’” Anduin’s voice oozed sarcasm.

It was Wrathion’s turn to glare.

“I will figure something out,” the dragon snapped.

“I hope your scheme works out better than burning the vines did.”

Wrathion huffed. “Now you’re just being purposely difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult. I’m angry. This whole thing could have been avoided!”

“Oh, dear, I’m very sorry, Prince Anduin. How may I appease the great Prince of Stormwind?”

“Stop it.”

“Make me.”

Anduin shoved his back against Wrathion’s. The dragon shoved back. The Alliance prince made an aggravated sound.

“Will you two shut up?” Sablemane snapped, making Wrathion jump. The dragon was glaring at them. “Sit there and be quiet!”

The two princes stopped and went silent again, though the Black Prince could feel Anduin’s irritation practically buzzing off of his skin.

Wrathion huffed and busied himself with glaring at the wall, unable to do little else other than to think about his miserable situation.

—-

Two hours had passed since he’d shouted at the princes to be quiet. Sabellian sighed noisily as he stretched out his front legs, arcing his back downwards as he loosened up the taut muscles there in his spine and his shoulders. He straightened, fluffing out his red wings with a yawn; he snapped his maw shut quickly when he heard shifting from inside the cave.

“I said don’t move,” he growled, and the moving stopped. He rolled his eyes. The Black Prince was not taking his confinement well, which annoyed the elder dragon. Wrathion had little leverage; he needed to learn when to be subservient.

Sabellian doubted he would.

No matter. The Alliance prince had proved a valuable chip to make Wrathion listen to Sabellian’s commands. The fact that a pale human could make Wrathion silent amused the dragon to no end.

He looked back up at the high canopy, high even to him in his dragon form. He’d shifted just a moment ago, ready to take the rest of the flight to another hideaway. Two hours had gone and went without any sign of pursuers or the recurrence of the scent he’d caught when speaking to Wrathion in the Alliance prince’s room.

Sabellian shook his head. Perhaps he was being too paranoid, but he cared little. He would not be losing the Black Prince again. He had lost too much already to have the whelp be snatched away - Talsian dead and Nasandria maimed. The latter drake was struggling to make it over the sea back to Pandaria; she was sick. Sabellian flexed his claws and turned to the entrance. She would make it, he told himself. She had made it this far.

The dragon reached in the cave with a paw and grabbed the two princes in his talons before yanking them back out. They were still tied together; it allowed him to have one paw free. He hooked a talon through the vine, made sure he had a tight grip, and trudged onwards to find a good place to lift back through the canopy.

“This is uncomfortable,” the Black Prince complained with a whine. Sabellian rolled his eyes.

“Good.”

“Where, exactly, do you hope to take us now?”

“I said ‘elsewhere’ before and ‘elsewhere’ is all the answer you will be getting.”

There was a slim opening in the tree leaves above. Sabellian lifted his wings and jumped into the air, spiraling upwards and pushing through the canopy that enclosed around him. Bits of branches and foliage tore away from him as he forced his way through.

“Ow!”

One of the branches must have hit the whelp. Sabellian snorted and leveled out, shaking his head to rid himself of a large wad of moss that clung to his double-horns.

“My apologies.”

They were above the canopy now, high in the dark, starry sky. To his left stretched out the large silver-and-gold wall, strangely elaborate and mighty in its simple design. He looked at it with some vague appreciation, turning his head north as it continued to yawn onwards, disappearing from sight in the dark.

Sabellian made his flight speed at a comfortable, average pace, unlike the quick fleeing one he had used when leaving Lion’s Landing. His wing beats were quiet. They were swift to pass over the cliff that separated Krasarang Wilds and the Valley of the Four Winds. The green plains stretched near-endlessly out in front of him; he had no thick trees to conceal him from sight, now.

At least it was night, and at least his scales were black and able to blend, especially this high up in altitude.

The princes had gone quiet in his claw. The blond had been more silent than the Black Prince – perhaps pouting. Sabellian was thankful for the quiet, at any rate. The two were more obnoxious when squabbling with one another than the hatchlings play-fighting at Blade’s Edge.

Sabellian followed the Wall, keeping it always to his left. He could see, just above it, the shadowy outlines of faraway trees, enormous in size, on the other side. He passed over a huge chunk of the great monument that had caved inward; it looked to be in the process of being patched up, but in the darkness the work site was abandoned.

Sabellian looked up again. He mulled over his good luck. The plan had gone perfectly – even better than he had expected, if he was honest with himself. No one had seen him slip in among the fallen soldiers and guards and heroes, even slipping by a king, to grab the two. The only people who had seen him were those individuals tied in his claws.

He continued to fly. Some time passed when something behind him caught his attention – a gentle whoosh of air.

Sabellian snapped his head back, fins rising.

There was nothing but the dark sky and the Wall and the thin clouds. The dragon narrowed his eyes and flared his nostrils, searching for some sort of scent, but the only thing was the smell of the grass below and the woodsy, near bug-like one from across the wall.

Slowly, he looked ahead again.

“Something else scare you?”

He glared down at his paw. The Black Prince’s smoky red eyes, lidded, looked back at him.

Sabellian squeezed his grip. Both prince’s grimaced.

“Take control of your dragon’s mouth, Anduin Wrynn,” Sabellian retorted. He looked up again, shaking out his shoulders as if attempting to brush away the uneasy feeling that was clung to the tip of the spikes along his back.

It was only a slight of air, Sabellian told himself. Perhaps one of the monstrous hawks he’d seen before. Nothing more.

His uneasiness began to drift away as he flew on without anymore of the sounds cropping up behind him.

The mountains that swept up to form the barrier of the Vale finally came into view, but only just. He’d have to take a steady left to go passed them, and veer across the Wall -

The nerves at the base of his fins began to tingle. Sabellian narrowed his eyes. What on earth -

There was another whoosh right above him.

And then the fiery smell of dragon – the same smell he had caught twice in Lion’s Landing, the smell that had made him hurry away so quickly, the smell that had made him stall there in the cave.

Sabellian snarled and spun.

Claws larger than his own slammed down hard against his shoulders before he could pivot fully, buckling him down through the air. The wind screamed against him as the force of the tackle forced him into a dive. A roar tore from his mouth.

His tail swept upwards and cracked against his assailant, and the claws against his shoulders jerked away. It lessened the leverage just enough for Sabellian to be able to turn. He swept his head back and shot a pressurized ball of flame.

It struck the other dragon hard in the chest. They roared, wings splaying out against the starry sky.

In the explosion of fire Sabellian’s eyes were blurred from the dragon’s appearance; he cared little about it at that fleeting moment. His wings once again caught on the breeze and he swept back upwards through the smoke.

It was then, as he arced forward, wings beating hard, blowing away the glare from the flame and the thick smoke of the impact, that he saw the dragon’s form; the red scales were bright even in the night, and the large silver horns so recognizable that the moment he saw them and the jewelry that hung from their curves he almost faltered.

Alexstrasza the Life-binder shook herself out from the flame hit and surged up after him.

“Hah!”

Sabellian hissed. The Black Prince had recognized the dragon, too. He squeezed the princes harder in his claw and continued his flight upwards, plummeting into the clouds.

His mind was quick, his thoughts a-frenzy with anger and surprise. Alexstrasza the Life-binder?! Was this some ill-imagined nightmare? He tossed a glance behind him and there she was, hurrying after him. She was more than a quarter, if not more than a half, the size of him.

Sabellian leveled out from his harsh vertical. He was waiting for some flame, some other attack from the Aspect, but she simply followed him, legs tucked in close to her bulky body.

No, she was truly there. There was no mistaking her appearance.

The princes – he cursed. She had been at Lion’s Landing; it was her he’d smelled twice! She’d been there – apparently guarding, now that she was attacking him. No wonder she wasn’t shooting fire; she risked harming the two in his paws.

… Why was she helping the Black Prince?!

Alexstrasza lurched forward. Before he could duck, her claws snatched onto the base of his tail and her heavy weight slammed down, and he tumbled for a moment with a screech before whipping his tail back. But the trick did not work as it had before; the Aspect swung her neck back, the spiked club of his tail sailing just beneath her jugular, before she struck out with her open, snarling maw.

Her teeth clamped hard at the bony edge of his left wing. Sabellian roared again as the pain shot up, and he jerked back. They began to plummet again. The wall became a blur of silver to his side.

Alexstrasza wanted him on the ground.

He snarled.

Sabellian, in a quick maneuver, swirled his body around despite the pain, belly up, his claws tightening hard on his two captives. His right wing went loose at his side, and their speed began to quicken to the earth. One of the princes yelled out.

Sabellian’s free claw swept out and smashed against the side of Alexstrasza’s face. The impact sent the Red’s maw tearing back from his wing, and blood plumed from the open wound, spraying back into the air. He hardly registered it.

Before she could recover he twisted back upright and shot another flame. It burst against the Aspect’s shoulder, and she snarled.

“What business do you want, Aspect?” Sabellian yelled in the quiet second of a heartbeat he had to speak as Alexstrasza began to stretch her wings again and recover from the blow. His left wing began to beat with a sharp pain; he bore his teeth and flapped his wings hard to keep himself at a hover.

“Release the two princes,” the Life-binder responded. “I do not wish to harm you any longer.”

He snarled in response and kicked out with his back legs as she soared the slightest inch closer. She dodged with ease with a simple flick of her wings.

“I will not,” Sabellian said. “This is of no concern to you.”

So much for keeping his existence a secret, he thought.

Before waiting for her reply, he folded his wings and dove.

The rush of wind behind him told him that she was following. He hissed. With only one of his paws free, his fighting was constricted.

“A lopsided fight, wouldn’t you say?” Wrathion yelled up from his claw against the wind. “I wish you luck against a former Aspect!”

He snarled, and it was only then that he realized the wind had stopped behind him.

Sabellian went to push back – but Alexstrasza tore up from beneath him and tackled him with such force his head snapped back.

The dragon’s senses shook. His chest heaved with pain from the impact.

Sabellian roared as he forced through the sensory overload; his free claw dug into her plated shoulder and found purchase beneath her scales, pricking against the thick skin beneath. Alexstrasza’s back legs found leverage against his softer stomach, and her forelegs caught around his own shoulders.

The two dragons went tumbling, hopelessly interlocked.

Alexstrasza struck out with her neck and her maw snapped against air as he tore his head back. He rammed his head forward, but she dodged as well.

They continued to snap at one another, all while spiraling to the quickly-approaching earth.

Alexstrasza managed to tear her teeth against the soft flesh underneath his neck. Sabellian hissed at the sharp pain and swept the claw hooked into her shoulder back, pulling forward blood and shearing away a handful of her ruby scales. She, in turn, dug her teeth in harder, and he screamed, draconically, in anger.

Sabellian kicked forward with his back legs and struck her against the gut. Alexstrasza grunted, loosening her hold. The ground was only yards away now. He tore back, kicking out again, fire scorching across her face just as one of her claws grazed the side of his own snout, pulling off some of his scales.

He went to twist away, away from her grip – but her claw struck out again there at his face. Sabellian ducked his head, but saw, in the slim moment he did, the Aspect feint her talons from his head to the claw that held the hostages.

Alexstrasza’s paw slammed into his. Fire burst against her talons and the vines around the princes began to smoke in that single second.

Sabellian screamed. He struggled to keep his hold.

In his flurry he didn’t see Alexstrasza ram her head forward. Her horns slammed hard into his already-bruised chest with such force he was pushed back away from her as her claws that had held him close tore back from him.

He spun back from the impact. His tail flailed, and cracked against Alexstrasza’s foreleg.

His paw was throbbing, but he snarled and tightened his hold. Ashes from the vines fell away. One of the princes – Wrathion, maybe – shouted out in aggravation.

“You won’t be escaping that easily,” Sabellian growled.

He tucked in his wings tight. The wounds he had given Alexstrasza were child’s play. She may have been a former Aspect, but her sheer size was to be feared, as well as her age and experience.

Sabellian was old, but Alexstrasza was older.

He was no fool. He could not best Alexstrasza the Life-binder in battle.

Better to try to escape.

Sabellian opened his mouth. Chaotic, unhinged fire spurt forth from his throat, and he twirled, wings twisting back and forth. The smoke from his flames bent around his movements.

He beat his wings hard once, and the smoke shot forward, all while flame continued to spray thick from his mouth; it curled through the air in droves, until it become something akin to a living curtain of fire. Beyond the roar of his inferno Alexstrasza screeched, her noise muffled by the flame and smoke.

The flame blocked him from view.

Sabellian tucked his paws close, not wanting to incinerate his prizes – not yet, anyway – and took his chance. His scales blended into the smoke and into the dark of the sky and he surged forward in the opposite direction of the Life-binder. If he could just get over the Wall, he could hide beyond -

A fireball burst against the base of his neck. It was not the flames, which were harmless, that made him roar, but the force of the hit. His wings jolted.

“Augh!”

He looked at the princes, orange eyes burning with rage, and pivoted to face the Life-binder again. His trick had, apparently, worked for only a moment; he had been too slow in his escape.

Alexstrasza struck out from the cloud of smoke with her maw curled back and a flame sparking at the back of her throat.

“Be wary of the princes, Life-binder!” Sabellian taunted, as he lifted his paw with the two to shield his chest. Though he was hovering once again, his wings were slowly beating him backwards and away from her. Wrathion was struggling in the vines, and Anduin was positively white-faced, as pale as a ghost, with a tinge of sickly green in his cheeks.

Sabellian laughed a bark of a laugh as the Red’s mouth snapped closed. He turned and flew again. With his left wing injured, his flight was not as quick, but he could outrun her; she was bigger, and thus less agile.

That gave him an idea.

The black dragon turned quickly – in the direction he had previously been flying away from.

Sabellian shot passed Alexstrasza. The Red roared and turned to fly after him.

He smirked as she took the bait.

The dragon’s flight began to zig-zag and plummet and stroke upwards into the clouds. Alexstrasza followed – but grew progressively farther away as she was unable to keep up with him.

“I believe I’ve outsmarted your savior,” Sabellian commented, as he craned his neck back to look at Alexstrasza. She was leagues away now.

“Best not speak so soon,” Wrathion said. Sabellian snapped his head forward. Why did he sound so – confident again?

“Don’t try -”

White-hot pain seared across his face and he jerked his head back with a screech, his flight nearly coming to a halt.

What on – he snarled and forced his eyes to open despite the pain. His vision was clouded with a white blur, the after-effects of the spell-… though they were able to lock onto his paw and see the Alliance prince’s hand outstretched and shining with white fire – Holy fire – and growing again for another hit. The vines – they were nearly gone, only one remaining looped around the Black Prince. Alexstrasza’s fire had smoldered them through while he had flown, and Anduin’s hand had managed to come free first.

“You little -!”

A force rammed into his back and he tumbled forward – and lost the grip on the princes.

“No!”

His head was jerked upwards – he did not see the princes begin to fall.

He screamed and tried to turn around – get her off, get her off, he needed to grab them before Wrathion could shift and escape - but too late. One of the Red’s claws had grabbed onto the back of his horns, and the other soon snatched onto the back of his neck.

Sabellian flailed out his legs, but she was too heavy. All her weight shoved down, and they plummeted.

The ground swept up to him.

He slammed, chest first, into the earth and slid, and the impact sent his body aflame with shock and pain so hard that his vision shook.

Dirt and grass caved out from his slide; his body left behind a long ditch in the plains.

The black dragon came to a stop and made a groan mixed with a snarl. He tried to get up, but roared when his left front leg pushed up against the ground, agony searing up his forearm. He had twisted it in the fall.

Alexstrasza was heavy atop him; both her forearms remained placed on his horns and neck, respectively, and one of her back legs pinned against his tail.

The former Aspect snarled in his face and shoved his head back to bare his neck. The black dragon hissed and struggled, dirt flinging up from his paws, the ground boom boom booming as the club of his tail slammed down in its thrashing against the grass.

Alexstrasza’s grip did not loosen at his struggling. Sabellian growled and stilled.

“Fine!” He snapped. He breathed heavily. The sting from his wounded wing, from his bruised chest, from all the rest of his injuries, began to beat like a second heart. “Very well. I submit.”

Alexstrasza was panting as well. She bore his neck up to her for a second more before her grip on his horns loosened -

He tore upwards, scrambling to his feet despite his twisted ankle, and snapped his jaw around her neck. In the quick movement, taking her by surprise, he pushed her back, rearing onto his back legs.

Alexstrasza reared up in response, and he twisted his neck around, digging harshly with his teeth into her flesh as the Life-binder’s claws arced across his chest and drew gashes of blood.

They struggled. One pushed, and the other pushed back. Their claws and teeth slashed and snapped. Scales were shorn off. Their fangs ripped into one another’s armored flesh, seeking the skin and vulnerability underneath.

Sabellian made a sloppy dodge as Alexstrasza’s teeth snapped next to one of his eyes. He stumbled back, and the Red took the open opportunity to find purchase on his shoulders with her front claws and viciously heave him to the side.

The sheer strength made him stumble away from her. He landed back on all fours, wings splayed out to the air. Blood dripped down the pattern of his scales and he backed up a step, pulling his maw back in a silent snarl as Alexstrasza sank back to the ground on all her legs; her land made the ground shake. She, too, bled profusely – but not as much as he did.

Where were the princes? He dared not look away from her. One slip and his throat would not be bared next time, but ripped out, surely.

He hoped they had not fallen to their deaths. That would be unfortunate for him.

“I suppose your wish to keep me unharmed has fled, Life-binder?” He sneered. He shot a quick ball of flame and it exploded just in front of her feet, sending rocks flinging up at her face. The grass caught fire and began to smoke. Alexstrasza simply walked over the growing flames.

“You have left me no alternative,” she replied. Her teeth were stained with his blood.

“You seem to have lost those you tried to save, might I point out,” Sabellian snapped. “Or perhaps you saw them fall to their deaths?”

She shook her head. Sabellian narrowed his eyes. Her silence made him suspicious. Had she seen something he had not?

The fire against the grass grew quickly. Sabellian turned back as Alexstrasza grew closer.

They began to circle one another. The black dragon’s wings were loose, ready to fly if the former Aspect lurched forward with an attack. He scowled at the limp in his step. Smoke curled from his open, snarling mouth.

“You are protecting the wrong side, Alexstrasza,” Sabellian scorned, flexing his claws against the grass as the two dragons continued to circle. The smoke from the smoldering fields rose behind the Red’s back, silhouetting her against the darkness.

“I am protecting no side,” she replied. Sabellian wanted to tear that ever-patient look on her face, the ever-patient tone in her voice. It infuriated him. “I am only protecting two individuals.”

“And how has the Black Prince reined you into his circle of followers, Life-binder?” His tail swung once. A gust of wind blew the smoke into a thinner but larger blanket, encircling them. The grass popped and crackled as the fire ate across it. “I would think that someone as infinitely wise as yourself would see he’s just a brat with an overinflated sense of entitlement.”

“I do not wish harm on either of them.”

She was evading the question. He hissed, fins flaring to their full extent.

A small movement behind her, visible even beyond the smoke, caught his attention. He looked over, squinting -

The Black Prince was trying to haul the Alliance prince to his feet, but the blond was struggling to get up – Sabellian could not see why.

How had they both made it to the ground?

Sabellian hissed. At least they had not died, but he had to get to them before Alexstrasza did. The Aspect began to look where he had been looking.

“No?” Sabellian said, loudly, drawing her attention back to him. He tried to turn his gait closer to her, but the Red saw and snarled. He backed his step up and continued on his regular walk at the same distance. “Do you know why I’m here, Life-binder?”

“I do not.”

The black dragon snorted. “Oh, he continues to keep secrets.” He huffed. “That whelp is bent on killing the rest of my children because of some warped idea that he must be the last of his kind.” He stopped his circling. Alexstrasza did as well. Her red-orange eyes were narrowed and her nostrils flared; he had her attention.

Let us see how long she will be protecting you after this, brother, he thought.

“I’m very certain you would know the vicious pain of losing a child, Alexstrasza.”

The former Aspect flinched. Sabellian held back a smirk.

“He has killed your children.” Alexstrasza’s statement was no question.

He bent his head. As he did so, he took a gentle step closer to her – and to the two princes.

“Indeed. Two of my drakes are dead.” Sabellian took another cautious step closer. His limp worsened with every movement. The blood from his injuries soaked through the gaps in his claws and stained the grass beneath him. Alexstrasza paid no snarl to his moving closer.

“I honestly have little interest in how you care for the Black Prince enough to fight me for him; apparently the roach can sway any mind.” Another step. Alexstrasza squinted. Her chest heaved in heavy breaths, as did his own. His injured front leg began to shake in the pause of activity. “But perhaps some shedding of light on his nature helps sway you in the opposite direction, him?”

As he’d done with Wrathion’s champions. As he’d tried to do with the human prince in the Kun-lai cave before the orc had intervened.

“Your children were unprovoked?”

There is was, that air of authority in her voice, the echoes of the title of Queen she once held before Deathwing’s destruction. He almost rolled his eyes, though his attention snapped behind her as he saw the two princes get to both of their feet.

“Yes,” he said, quickly, as Alexstrasza’s head began to turn to where he had been looking. The Red looked at him again; she hadn’t seen them. “He seeks for a corruption my brood does not possess. And he knows as much.”

Alexstrasza studied him. The fire had reached the Wall behind her. Distantly, shouts of alarm began, unintelligible in their distance away.

“Oh, don’t look at me so questioningly. Was it not your Flight who made that stitched puppet of a whelp so free of corruption? Such a state like mine can be reached without such disgusting experimentation, I assure you.” He did not mention the voice he had heard there in the Vale, nor how he hoped to find similar technology that had purified the prince to purify himself. “It amuses me that your ‘good-natured’ drakes could do as much. My father would have been proud – if he had not been an abomination of his own and capable of such an emotion, of course.”

Alexstrasza growled. He was pushing it, but he found himself uncaring.

“But I digress. Surely if you believe that the whelp is free of the Old Gods, than I am.”

He was only a handful of yards away from her and the princes now.

The Red was studying him. “I find myself doubting you.”

“Of course you do,” Sabellian snapped. “But don’t doubt what I told you of the Black Prince. I will have that whelp and he will suffer for what he has done and what he has planned to do. No one harms my children.” He snarled, betraying his lack of composure as his rage began to swell in his chest as he spoke. “You would have done the same, my Queen.” He spat the name with bitterness. “Remind me of how many children you have lost. What happened to their killers, I wonder?”

Alexstrasza growled again, deep and thrumming in her throat.

Sabellian was close to her and the princes. This was his chance.

“Did it go something like this?”

“What -”

He hurdled forward and slammed across her. The former Aspect stumbled. He took his chance. Sabellian surged behind her as the ground rumbled.

Wrathion saw him coming, first. The whelp made an undignified yelp of surprise and shifted into dragon form.

Sabellian snarled. Too late, prince, he thought. He had them now. He snapped forward with his mouth, intending to grab them with his teeth -

Alexstrasza slammed into his side. He screamed and stumbled, his neck whipping back, but he caught his balance just enough to strike his claws out -

He grabbed only one of the princes; he didn’t see who in the blur as Alexstrasza barreled into him again so hard that he felt his ribs near to breaking. He slammed into the side of the Wall with a resounding boom and the whole infrastructure shook.

Sabellian roared and scrambled to his feet, snapping his wings forward and shooting up into the air. His tail managed to crunch across Alexstrasza’s face at the end of her charge, and the Aspect stumbled back, rearing up, giving him just enough time to barrel upwards at a harsh vertical across the Wall.

He glanced down at his paw – and hissed. It was the Alliance prince he’d grabbed, not Wrathion. Anduin was attempting to wriggle out of his hold – probably to sear him with Holy fire again, which his face still stung from – but the dragon only stiffened his grip and the blond grimaced.

He shot up across the Wall until reaching the top. On the other side stretched the barren wastes he had only glanced at before; fields of blackened earth dotted with stark, bushy trees and, in the distance, gargantuan trees taller even than the mighty Wall.

Sabellian had little time to think. He dove across the other side – and saw the hole in the Wall he had seen before.

Perfect.

Panting, he shot down hard, folding his wings in close and slamming to the ground, his left, injured wing going loose at his side almost instantly.

Sabellian shifted into his human form. Anduin caught the distraction and tried to struggle from his loosened hold, but the dragon snarled and grabbed him by the back of his collar, claws digging into the fine fabric, and dragged him to the crater in the Wall, simply lifting the prince up into the broken silver brick when the boy refused to move his legs.

Sablemane pushed himself back into the side of the hole. The Wall was thick enough where his hideaway could shield him from view of those up above, and there was enough craggy edges to hide him from those on his level.

Sablemane clasped his hand tight over Anduin’s mouth and pressed them back against the brick, deeper into the shadowed archways. The prince began to struggle again. Sablemane growled and snatched his other arm around the boy’s chest and dug his claws through his blue tabard, just breaking the skin against the delicate ribs underneath.

“Quiet,” Sablemane hissed. His claws dug harder, and Anduin stopped struggling.

He looked over Anduin’s shoulder and tilted his head, cautiously, up around the silver brick. The dragon kept his eyes lidded to lessen their glow in the dark.

Alexstrasza was circling above, her form bright against the stars. He ducked back.

The prince’s eyes were trained up above, mirroring Sablemane’s gaze. The dragon held his breath. Though the brick hid them from view, and thus hindered his field of vision of the outside, he could just see the former Aspect of Life soar into view again – at least, the ends of her legs and the club of her tail.

His wounds began to pain as he watched the larger dragon circle, searching. Sablemane curled his lips back as the arm holding Anduin started to shake.

The prince must have felt it, because he tried to stagger forward. Sablemane tore him backwards again and his grip only became fiercer.

“I will tear your tongue out if you scream,” Sablemane hissed. “Or if you try to run again. I have no use for your voice.”

He did not look at the blond. His eyes still looked upwards.

Go away, he thought with a snarl, as he watched Alexstrasza fly.

The blood dripped hot down his robes. His breathing was labored, but quiet.

Slowly, Alexstrasza turned and disappeared over the other side of the wall.

Sablemane relaxed, but only slightly. Anduin was still in his grip and he would not lose this prince as he had lost Wrathion – again.

He waited there for long, silent moment, straining for any sounds or scents of the Life-binder. But he heard none.

Alexstrasza would be going back for Wrathion, no doubt; Sablemane could not go back to search for his lost prize.

He growled. At least he had the Alliance prince, he thought. Wrathion would come looking for his pale companion.

Satisfied he would not be seen, he shifted, snatched the prince in his maw, and bolted on foot, too paranoid of flight, into the dreary Dread Wastes; he left behind a thickening trail of blood in his wake.

—-

Wrathion sat up with a groan.

He stumbled forward once, catching his balance by snapping out his wings. His broken front leg was tucked underneath him. The whelp’s entire body seemed to shake, a ghost-echo of the vibrations of the ground that had made him trip over himself when Sabellian had bolted forward then crashed into the Wall.

Wait. Sabellian. He snapped his head around wildly.

Where was -

“Anduin?” He called out, fins rising.

He transformed back into his human form, stumbling forward for the second time in his sudden panic. His shoulders thrummed with a deep ache; he’d nearly pulled his arms from their sockets when he’d shifted into whelp form as they’d fallen and grabbed Anduin to keep the prince from crashing to his ill-mannered death – and the blond had been heavier than Wrathion had initially thought he would be.

Wrathion looked around again. The plains in front of him were aflame. Huge mounds of dirt were upturned, signaling where Alexstrasza and Sabellian had fought – as well as the trails of splattered blood.

Everything had happened too quickly. Anduin had landed badly on his right leg, Wrathion had tried to get him to his feet, then Sabellian had charged forward -

Sabellian had snatched Anduin. Wrathion cursed loudly and looked up.

Where had he gone with the prince?

He cursed again, louder, and hurriedly rubbed the dirt from his face. He didn’t see Alexstrasza, or Sabellian, and certainly not Anduin.

Wrathion was about to shift into whelp form to look for the prince, not quite thinking of out-maneuvering Sabellian to get him, when a large shape above caught his eye – Alexstrasza was flying back from the beyond the Wall.

The former Aspect tilted her head down and saw him, judging by how she began to dive. He instinctually braced him himself – it looked like she planned to snatch him, or perhaps tackle him – but she landed in front of him with a tremendous boom; he lurched forward at the impact, his feet losing traction on the ground, and he nearly fell – though a hand on his shoulder pushed him back upright, and he looked up. Alexstrasza, in human form, looked down at him. She was bleeding and bruised, but stood as regal as she usually did, unperturbed by her wounds. Her silken robe was gone, replaced by her decorated armor. A slightly see-through cape shimmered behind her in the wind of the plains.

“Sabellian has taken the prince,” she simply said. Her voice was distant.

“I think I know that,” Wrathion snapped, furious at himself, suddenly, for the welling of panic that was threatening to bubble in his chest. He took a deep breath, then another, to force himself to calm down, but it wasn’t working very well as it normally did. An aggravated growl tore from his throat. “Well? Why aren’t you going after him?!”

“I do not know where he went.”

“Over the Wall,” Wrathion said, stating the obvious and well aware that he sounded like a snooty brat and not caring about it. Alexstrasza squinted at him.

“He disappeared beyond. I did not see him.”

Wrathion stood upright. He glanced at the wall, eyes wide and angry, then back at her. His lips were curled back in an unhappy frown.

“Then – well, find him!”

Alexstrasza only stared at him. Wrathion almost growled again at her silence. What was she waiting for?

“I must ask if what Sabellian told me is true.”

He looked at her, confused.

“What?” His shoulders sagged at the sudden shift in conversation. He glanced at the Wall again before looking back at her.

“Your killing of his children.”

Wrathion stared. For a moment, he was silent – before his lips curled back in a scowl.

“Can’t we speak of this at another time when Prince Anduin has not been snatched up?!”

“There is nothing I can do for Prince Anduin.”

Wrathion’s scowl deepened. He pointed, violently, to the Wall.

“You can go and look for him,” he hissed. “Or is a hulking black dragon too difficult for you to find?”

Alexstrasza’s eyes flickered; her disguised, human-like pupils dilated to thin slits.

“I have already overstepped my boundaries by battling Sabellian for your safety,” she said, quietly, and Wrathion felt himself lean back the slightest amount at the tone of voice. There was an edge of danger in the Red’s words, a tapping of anger he realized through his haze of frustrated panic he did not want to dig into. “I cannot go further. You are safe.”

“Anduin isn’t!”

“No. But I do not have any debt to the young mortal. I have paid the debt of guilt I have to you twice-fold, Black Prince, where it should have simply been once. I suppose the prince swayed me to linger.”

Wrathion stared at her, disbelieving. A bead of blood curled down the side of the Red’s face, but she did even raise a hand to brush it away.

“I understand you are frustrated -”

“Frustrated!” Wrathion growled. “Sabellian has taken Anduin Wrynn and you refuse to do anything about it but lecture me!” He huffed, loudly, readjusted his lopsided turban which was slowly slipping off of his head, and started to try to walk around her. “Thank you for your heroic help, but I will be fine on my own for now.” Fine, he thought. If Alexstrasza was going to be stubborn and refused to help him further, he would do well on his own, like he always did.

Sabellian couldn’t have gone very far. Wrathion had seen Alexstrasza bite into his brother’s wing and had seen her smash him into the ground, which had delighted the Black Prince so much that he would cherish the memories forever. But with those wounds, the black dragon would be slowed down. Wrathion thought quickly. It was all fine and dandy that he was free, but now he had the trouble of Anduin. Surely the prince was alright, he told himself. He took a deep breath. Surely.

He hissed, then, suddenly annoyed. If only the blond had just jumped out of the way -!

He needed to contact his Agents. If Left had the chains for Mogu’shan – he glanced up at the Wall. Did not the Pandaren have harpoon-like machines they used against the Mantid?

Alexstrasza grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back. It was a gentle touch, but there was a strength there, and he stumbled back.

“We were not finished speaking.”

“I believe we were,” Wrathion said. He directed his anger towards her again rather than Anduin and Sabellian. He’d assumed she would have killed Sabellian when he’d seen her emerge from the darkness – but no, of course not. She had to have boundaries for herself. For what idiotic, foolish, unimaginable reason he didn’t know. Perhaps some equally idiotic, foolish, and unimaginable law of dragonkind or the laws of the Aspect he didn’t know and was, for the first time, glad he didn’t.

“I asked you about Sabellian’s children.”

“Fine. Yes. I had them killed. And I will have the rest of them killed, as well, along with him.” His voice was a growling hiss.

Alexstrasza watched him. “As you killed the rest of your family on Azeroth.”

Ah. So she knew about that. He straightened himself up. “Yes.”

“For their corruption.”

Now she was annoying him. “Yes!”

“Did the dragons on Outland provoke you?”

Wrathion hesitated. “Well – ah – no -”

“And yet you decided to kill them.”

Wrathion snarled. “I had to. You can’t possibly understand. I -”

“Then make me understand why the killing of innocents was necessary.”

The undercurrent of anger that he had heard in her voice before had returned. He ground his teeth and glared at her, and she only stared back with her pupils in their slits.

Why did she seem so… affected by this, he wondered. She had helped destroy his Father, had helped destroy the black dragons he had not. She should have been thanking him for doing the task.

It was only then that he remembered that like Sabellian, Alexstrasza, too, had lost children. Had not Korialstrasz destroyed her last eggs in the struggle against Chromatus? He nearly flinched – Sabellian had compared him to that monster of Nefarian’s.

… No wonder she was so upset. Her wounds of the loss of so many eggs no doubt had not settled; was she really empathizing with Sabellian? He growled.

“It was necessary because they are not like me,” Wrathion said. He tried to keep the growl from his voice, but only succeeded somewhat. “And I am finished with this conversation, Life-binder. I have other matters – more pressing matters – to attend to than coddling your worries for dragons who deserve to die. Matters like Prince Anduin, who for all I know might be getting torn limb from limb while you stand here in my way.”

The two dragons stared each other down. Alexstrasza’s eyes were narrowed. He applauded her composure.

The former Aspect sighed after a moment. She sounded very tired. Her dilated eyes shifted back to her elven ones.

And then she stared at him with such a look of disappointment he slowly leaned back, sinking his shoulders in on himself, without realizing it.

“I hope I did not make the mistake in saving you,” Alexstrasza said. Wrathion swallowed.

Her eyes became distant. For a brief moment, something felt like it was clawing at his chest, in his throat, and he impulsively wanted to argue with her, to wipe that look off her face, to make her understand that he wasn’t in the wrong here – that he was doing the right thing, that he knew he was doing the right thing, that he -

“They will find you if you stay here. The smoke will catch their attention.”

Wrathion’s racing thoughts stilled. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Frustrated at himself, he pushed through the odd tugging at his chest and spoke. “What? Who, exactly?”

Alexstrasza stepped back. Thick smoke enveloped her as she shifted into her dragon form. Wrathion did not even reach her elbows, she was so large; her paws were half the size that he was, if not larger.

The jewelry at her horns jingled as she bent her head down to look at him. The look of disappointment was still there in her scaled, bleeding face. His chest and stomach soured.

“Wait -”

“I have overstayed my welcome.” Her red-orange eyes fixated on him.

A sudden, deep-set anger burst within his chest. This was ridiculous. Too much had happened for her to abandon him so easily, for her to come and go as she pleased because of some – some stupid restrictions she had set upon herself. “Fine,” he yelled up at her. “Go into hiding again like a coward. Give greetings from me to the next Celestial you fancy yourself meeting, Life-binder, as I try to wrestle in a problem you could easily fix!”

Alexstrasza stared at him.

He backed up quickly as her her large head tilted down to his level. Smoke from her nostrils blew in his face, and he squinted through it.

“I cannot fix any problem with ease, Black Prince,” she said. Her usually calm, patient voice was angry, frustrated. “This is no battle of mine to fight. If what Sabellian says is true, and you wish to kill his uncorrupted family, does that not make you the enemy? Does not the loss of one life save those dozens you wish to kill?”

Wrathion gawked at her.

“Of course he’s corrupted! They all are! I -”

“Perhaps he is.” She lifted her head away from him. “Perhaps he is not. I do not know for certain, as I am sure you do not know, either.” The Life-binder leveled him with a serious, burning look. “And yet, to involve myself as I had involved myself in the affairs of those who were not my kin before the Cataclysm, my judgment would be unprejudiced. You may have had my favor, but if you threatened the lives of an entire, pure race, I would not hesitate in destroying you, as I destroyed Malygos and Neltharion.”

Wrathion stared. His mouth was agape.

“Are you sure you wish for me to intervene now, Black Prince?”

He swallowed hard. Scowling silently, he shook his head.

She nodded as if she had expected that answer. Wrathion nearly hissed.

“If you wish to find help, I would advise you to stay, as I said before.” She began to lift her wings, paused, and looked back down at him again. “Do not let hatred control you, young one, as it controlled your father.”

Wrathion stilled, frozen. His mouth opened, wordless, but no words came; he was too taken aback to say anything.

She stared at him for a moment longer, lingering, her eyes boring into his – he looked away.

Her wings lifted as he broke their gaze; the pinkish red membranes caught the air and hauled her upwards. Wrathion shielded his eyes at the swirl of air and smoke her wings stirred, but looked up again as it gently faded out.

Without a goodbye, as last time, Alexstrasza turned and flew to the north. Wrathion watched her, his brows furrowed, his mouth in a set, grim line. She soon disappeared among the haze of darkness, disappearing as easily as she had reappeared both times to save his life. Wrathion swallowed, bitter. He could not shake the disappointed look she had given him, and he admonished himself for it. What did he care about what Alexstrasza thought of him?

He was alone in the burning plains. Wrathion stared for a minute longer before he shook himself out.

“I am not letting it control me,” he mumbled to himself. “I am doing the right thing.” His good hand flexed into a fist then relaxed again. He nodded to himself, as if to back up his own voice. “She simply doesn’t understand.”

He looked where she had gone, scowled, and looked away again. No. She didn’t understand. How could she possibly understand where he was coming from?

Wrathion ground his teeth, sneezing when some of the smoke swept into his face. He tried to forget the conversation, save for one point - she had said to wait here for – whoever. He glanced at the Wall worriedly, then forced the worry from his face.

Sabellian may have captured Anduin again, but he would not get away with that for long.

Wrathion shifted into dragon form, sat down on the grass, and waited.

Perhaps he could contact his Agents.

That may be useful.

—-

“Let me down!”

“I don’t believe that’s an option for you, little prince.”

Sabellian tromped through the dark, grassy plains of the Dread Wastes, slowly making his way north to the higher mountains. The human prince was clasped in his injured paw; Anduin was struggling again, trying to pull up his shoulders to get his hands free.

Sabellian sighed loudly, and, without stopping his walk, looked down at the blond.

“You realize I can eat you in one snap of my jaws, do you not?” Sabellian’s wounds were still bleeding, but he was trying to ignore the pain; his injured wing was loose and unflexed at his side. He could treat them when he stopped; he couldn’t afford Wrathion, or Alexstrasza, catching up to him – not yet, anyway.

Anduin glared up at him, and for the moment, stopped his wriggling. “You won’t kill me.”

“You sound very certain of that.”

Anduin smiled. Oh, the little prince was smug.

“You need me to lure Wrathion,” the prince said. “I think that requires keeping me alive.”

Sabellian rolled his eyes and looked away. Up ahead, to his right, were jutting, craggy hills; dark ruins crumbled atop them. He could just make out stone statues, weathered by age, standing guard over the forgotten place. The dragon did not recognize the creatures the statues represented – large, hulking, dog-faced things.

He did not like this place. There was something… off about it. He had discovered as much when he looked up at one of those monstrous trees, beautiful in form and ancient in age, and saw it interlaced with the same beating blue energy that had shown from Talsian’s eyes; he did not quite know what to make of it.

So he had decided to go over those mountains in the distance, though he did not know the land beyond it. Surely he could find a place to hide there – a good place to secure the hostage in his hand and hopefully lure the Black Prince to him.

“Tell me. What is that energy?” Sabellian motioned his head to the sloping plains to his left, where the grass had shriveled along with the spiky trees, and where that same glowing, blue-white burn burst almost peacefully from small cracks in the ground. Anduin looked where he had indicated.

“It’s the Sha,” the prince said.

“The Sha.”

Anduin nodded. His eyes were drooped, as well as his mouth, in an expression of sudden exhaustion. Of course he was tired, Sabellian thought. He hadn’t stopped trying to get out of the dragon’s grip for the past half hour.

Well, good. If the prince stopped struggling, Sabellian would be much less annoyed, and it would be easier to tie him up if Anduin was too tired to run.

“Explain what the ‘Sha’ is.”

Anduin sighed, and glowered up at time tiredly. He said nothing.

Sabellian snorted. “Come now, little prince. There is no use for being so silent and moody.”

“You’ve kidnapped me and have refused to listen. I have every reason to act this way.”

“Not quite fitting for a prince.” Sabellian clucked his tongue in admonishment. Anduin’s glare deepened. “You are starting to act as bratty as your dragon.” He chuckled darkly. “And yelling at me to ‘let you down at once’ over and over is not reasoning with me.”

Anduin’s glare deepened. Sabellian shook his head and looked back up again.

“Now. I believe you were about to explain the Sha to me. Honestly. What else would you rather do: pout silently or share general, harmless information?”

Anduin squirmed again, sighed, and went still.

“It’s negative energy,” the prince grumbled. “Fear, anger –… despair come to life.”

Sabellian made a interested humming noise in the back of his throat. “Is that so?” He said, eyeing the criss-cross patterns of the ‘Sha’ energy against the plains again. “And how did it come into my son?”

Anduin went silent.

“You’ve told me this much. Be helpful. You seem to enjoy being so.”

“I will not help my captor.”

Anduin’s voice was stiff and angry.

Sabellian snorted, smoke pluming from his nostrils.

“Where are you taking me?” Anduin demanded after a couple minutes of silence. Sabellian had passed the ruins, and was sloping down into a gentle decline. A small lagoon of silver water spread out in front of him.

“To whatever lies beyond those hills. This place is not one I wish to stay in for long.”

Anduin relaxed in his claw, at that. Curious. Perhaps the brave little prince did not like this place, either.

“Care to tell me what is beyond the hills?”

“I guess you’ll find out soon.”

The prince’s cheekiness was starting to get on Sabellian’s nerves. He shook his claw once to jostle the human – then regretted it immediately as a pang of pain swept up his twisted ankle up to his elbow.

Blasted wounds. He growled and looked up at the hills again.

“Are you leaving behind that obvious a trail for a reason?” Anduin asked with snark. Sabellian’s fins bristled.

“The Black Prince must find me somehow,” Sabellian said, glancing behind him. The grass he had made his way through was tromped down, crushed by his weight, and his tail, swinging back and forth, had made a snake-like wave through – not to mention the spattering of blood from his wounds caught on the monochromatic foliage. “And did you not hear him boast of his Blacktalons? Every inch of Pandaria, he said. Well. Let’s see if they can find me as easily as he claimed.”

“Sabellian.” The dragon looked at the prince. The sass was gone from his voice. “Listen. Please. I know, in the cave, you were against speaking. But Wrathion isn’t here. If we can come to some sort of terms -”

“No.”

“But -”

“Stop speaking, prince. I do not want to deal with you any longer.”

Anduin, surprisingly, did not snap back. The prince only sighed.

Sabellian looked at the hills again, thankful for the blond’s obedience. He would soon find himself on the other side of the hills – hopefully in a better place than this – and find a good hideaway –… a hideaway that could double as a lure, a trap, for the Black Prince. It would be easy.

Sabellian fluffed his wings and quickened his gait.

—-

Wrathion was not sure how much time had passed when he mustered up enough strength and willpower to contact his Agents.

Perhaps it had been an hour. He glanced up at the stars, halfway hidden by the rising smoke. The Pandaren from the closest village – Stoneplow, he believed the name was – had arrived shortly after Alexstrasza had left to put out the flames. He’d watched them for a while, strangely fascinated with how quickly they managed to douse the growing inferno with only a handful of workers and only simple jugs of water. Their teamwork was quaintly admiring.

The whelp was curled around himself, hidden in the grass. He turned his gaze from the stars and to the Wall. He glared at it. Why couldn’t he be fully grown, already? Wrathion flexed his claws and glared at them, too, as he compared them to how large and foreboding Alexstrasza’s had been. He could go over the Wall and fight Sabellian himself if he was – well, bigger.

But he was small, and he had to force himself to use others.

Oh well. He may not be fully grown, but what he lacked in strength he made up for with allies and his scheming… though that did not stop him from being frustrated. After all, he had to wait for them. How inconvenient. He grumbled to himself, annoyed. The longer he sat here, the farther away Sabellian could get with Anduin Wrynn.

He laid his head back down between his paws and closed his eyes. The darkness behind his lids was comforting, and for a brief, instinctual moment he wanted to sleep – but he shook his head and focused.

The dragon pulled forth the gems of his Watchers and Agents. As always, they appeared as innumerable, shining dots in his mind’s eye; he shifted through them impatiently, searching for one in particular -

Ah. There she was. He honed in on Left’s, distant, and made the link.

Left?

My Prince. What do you need?

He relaxed at her immediate response. Wrathion was fine with only hearing the orc; he did not want to waste precious energy on seeing through her gem. He knew where she was.

First, please tell me you have what I asked for.

We are retrieving them as we speak.

Wrathion nodded to himself. Good.

The whelp hesitated, then. How was he supposed to word this next bit?

Ah – Left. Hurry, will you? The situation has… shifted.

In what way?

My dearest brother has stolen the Alliance’s precious prince. He did not bother to tell her that he had been kidnapped, too, and now sat alone like some lost child in the grass. Do not ask how. I am tired and frustrated and I do not want to explain at the moment. The dragon had his eyes closed, but was busying himself with pulling up the grass beneath his front paws, with his broken leg tucked underneath him. Send two Agents to me for guarding, and when the Chains are in your hands, contact me again.

A sound above caught his attention. Annoyed at the interruption, he opened one eye, squinting upwards -

The whelp hunkered down, deeper into the grass, as he saw the source of the sound.

A large formation of gryphon riders sailed above him, led by an enormous monster of a gryphon with black and brown feathers and haunches.

The beasts and their riders wore Alliance regalia, shiny blue and gold. Wrathion lifted his head cautiously, peeking up above the grass, as they landed some yards away from him. The gryphons pawed at the ground and ruffled their wings at the smoke.

Alexstrasza’s advice came back to him. They will find you if you stay here. The smoke will catch their attention.

“Two of you to Stoneplow. Ask what happened here.” The leader on the brown and black gryphon dismounted. Wrathion sunk back down into the grass as he saw that the man wore grey-blue shoulderpads of a lion and an eagle.

King Varian Wrynn’s back was to him. The dragon exhaled through his teeth.

He should have guessed it would have been the King.

Why did it have to be the King? What, could Alexstrasza not warn him about it?

My Prince -?

He jumped. He nearly forgot he was still in a link with Left’s gem.

Ah – yes, continue with the Chains. He hesitated. He had been going to ask to also send his more experienced Agents to deal with Sabellian with Wrathion, but he recalled Sabellian’s warning in the cave; Wrathion did not want Anduin’s arms ripped off.

And besides, Sabellian had warned nothing against Alliance soldiers.

I have some business to attend to.

It was sloppy, but he cut off the connection. He was too flustered at the King’s appearance.

What was Wrathion supposed to do? He watched with narrowed eyes as two of the gryphon riders moved their mounts at a quick trot to the Pandaren village. Was he supposed to waltz up to the King and proclaim, Hello, King Varian Wrynn! Fancy meeting you here! Did you know your son was kidnapped by Deathwing’s living son?

He curled his claws into the dirt and shifted about his wings. He had to do something. King Varian was speaking low and intense to one of the riders – an officer, maybe. Judging by his hunched shoulders and curled lip, the Ghost Wolf was angry.

Of course he was angry, Wrathion mused. His son had been stolen. Again.

The King might blame it on the Black Prince. The whelp grumbled to himself. As if this was his fault. He blamed Anduin for being slow in dodging and Sabellian for grabbing the prince.

Wrathion continued to watch. He had never spoken to the King before. He had done research on him, had watched his champions prove their King’s worth to him, had been impressed with the King’s loyalty and ferocity. He’d seen the King up close at Lion’s Landing, but had not… spoken to him.

Wrathion snorted. What was he so worried about? He was a good talker. He could easily charm the King of Stormwind like he charmed everybody else.

At least, he hoped. The King’s anger was obvious. He did not want that impressive sword strapped to the Alliance leader’s waist to chop off his head or run him through; the dragon was well aware of Varian’s temper from his research.

Wrathion slowly got to his feet. The longer he stalled mulling over to himself how this would go, the farther away Sabellian was getting with the prince.

He shifted into his human form. One of the gryphons saw him transform and squawked. The dragon glared at it before looking at the mortals.

“Greetings, champions of the Alliance!” He called out, using his most charming voice. “I -”

Three of the riders whirled around and raised their rifles and bows so quickly Wrathion stopped mid-step. The Black Prince raised his good arm to his side defensively, smiling as innocently as he possibly could.

“Those aren’t necessary,” he said. The annoyance he felt at being treated like an enemy did not make it into his voice.

Varian Wrynn turned to look at him. The King’s eyes narrowed.

Before Wrathion could even think, the human king stormed over, grabbed him by the front of his scaled tabard and shook him once, violently.

“Where is my son, dragon?” The king growled, and shook him again when Wrathion didn’t answer immediately.

“If you would stop shaking me, King Wrynn, I will gladly share,” Wrathion said. He couldn’t afford to grumble or growl at the King of Stormwind and risk insulting and thus enraging the human further – and it was difficult not to. How dare someone treat him like this? He’d had enough of being treated like a ragdoll from Sabellian.

Wrathion’s lips twitched, threatening an annoyed grimace, as Varian slowly loosened his hold on the dragon’s tabard and, much to the Black Prince’s irritation, the King kept one hand gripped on the scales, as if worried Wrathion might run.

“Talk,” Varian ordered. “Now.”

Behind him, the Alliance who had raised their ranged weapons refused to lower them.

Wrathion exhaled through his nose. He smiled politely, though his eyes were lidded and vacant, betraying his aggravation.

“Once I am treated as an ally and not an enemy,” Wrathion said smoothly. His left hand was still raised at his side. “Having your officers lower their weapons may be a start.”

Varian made an impatient flicking motion with his free hand. The officers lowered their weapons, though Wrathion did not miss how some of their hands were still taut on the triggers.

“And perhaps you could let go of my tabard,” he added, glancing down at the King’s gauntlet snatched onto his clothes, then back up at him. “Your son has his absolute trust in me. I can assure you, King Varian, that you can, as well.”

“Everywhere you have been with my son, bad luck has followed, wyrm – first the fiasco during the battle and now this.” King Varian took a deep breath, and the anger in his eyes lessened – but only somewhat. “No good ever comes from black dragons, and I warned my son as much. Whatever has happened to Anduin I know is your fault. So no. I don’t trust you.” His glare was vicious. “Now speak without your silver tongue.”

Wrathion huffed. Varian only tightened his hold, the metal in his gauntlets clinking at the knuckles.

“Very well,” Wrathion muttered. “Where to begin?”

“You can start with where my son is.”

And admit he wasn’t the last black dragon as the world believed, a truth only a handful of people now knew. He ground his teeth.

But he had little choice. Lying would do no good – Varian would see Sabellian and realize.

“Prince Anduin has been taken by an enemy of mine,” Wrathion began. He spoke with caution, choosing his words carefully.

“The same that destroyed my fort’s hallway?”

Wrathion hesitated. What was -? Oh. He wrinkled his nose. He had destroyed the hallway during his… incident, not Sabellian.

“Ah – yes,” he lied. “He -”

“What’s this ‘enemy’?” Varian’s questions were harsh and impatient.

The Black Prince hesitated again, longer than before.

“Do not play around with me, dragon. I am in no mood.”

“Sabellian,” Wrathion said with an exasperated sigh. “A black dragon, son of Deathwing, thousands of years old. Ah, and the brother of Onyxia, may I point out.”

Varian, for a moment, looked surprised; his brows bunched together, and his already frowning lips deepened their downward curve. “I was under the impression you were the last black dragon.”

“As was I,” Wrathion grumbled.

Varian scowled and let go of him with a push of his hand. Wrathion teetered back on his heels before straightening himself up, drawing up his shoulders and brushing out his tabard with his left hand.

“What business does a relative of yours have with my son?” Varian growled. The news only seemed to have angered the King more. “And why are you here?”

“Well,” Wrathion started, smiling and having the gesture come out looking awkward and forced on his face, “I was… misplaced in a brief scuffle. Sabellian unfortunately managed to snatch onto dear Anduin again.”

Varian narrowed his eyes at him. It looked like the King was struggling with himself, as if unsure to believe the dragon or not. Wrathion knew that look well; many of his champions often gave it to him, much to his annoyance.

“How do I know this isn’t some scheme of yours?” Varian huffed. He put his hand on the hilt of Shalamayne; Wrathion did not miss that subtle threat.

Wrathion rolled his eyes. “I am not in some league with my brother,” he said. “I am the one he wants.”

“And yet he left you here and took my son.”

Wrathion sighed, frustrated. This was proving more difficult to explain that he’d hoped.

“Well, yes,” the Black Prince said, and Varian glared. Wrathion hurried to finish his thought. “But not because of a ‘scheme’ of mine. Things became amiss and happened too quickly, and in the confusion Sabellian snapped up poor Anduin instead of me. It is as simple as that. Surely you understand the disorder of battle, King Varian,” he added, smoothly.

“Don’t patronize me, dragon.”

“I do have a name.”

Varian scoffed. Before he could reply, the two gryphon riders he had sent to Stoneplow moments before came trotting back.

“Your Majesty -”

“A moment,” the King interrupted. The soldier who had spoken, a lanky night elf, nodded.

“Where is Sabellian now?” Varian looked back at Wrathion.

“I am… unsure.” The King began to scowl at that. “Beyond the Wall.”

Varian ran one of his hands over his face in a manner that absurdly reminded Wrathion of Anduin.

“He’s slowed by injuries,” Wrathion added. “No doubt he’s left some sort of trail.”

“Dragons can fly,” Varian growled back. “What trail can be left in the air, wyrm?”

Wrathion glared, irritated. “I believe I know that we can fly, thank you.” He sniffed, rolling his shoulders back. “One of his wings is injured.”

Varian glanced at the Wall. Wrathion began tapping one of his feet impatiently.

“The longer you spend questioning me the longer the chance Sabellian has to get away with the prince. Shall we talk elsewhere?”

The king looked back at him, glowered, then glanced over his shoulder at the night elf.

“Report.”

“The Pandaren saw little. They woke to the plains aflame, but one merchant assured me she saw a dark, large form go over the Wall. They doused the inferno -”

Varian put up an impatient hand to cut the night elf off; he’d apparently heard what he had wanted to. Begrudgingly, he turned back to Wrathion, who had a wide, toothless, smug smile stretched out across his face. Varian couldn’t possibly challenge that he was lying, now.

“Alright,” the king grumbled. “I believe you. Somewhat.” Varian took a deep breath. Wrathion watched, curious. The king wasn’t rushing into the situation, the dragon noticed. Interesting.

Wrathion took the slight pause to jump back into the conversation. He grinned widely, all his sharp teeth flashing white against his face.

“Perhaps we might take your gryphons to the top of the Wall,” Wrathion said, loud enough even for the officers behind the King to hear. “I have an excellent idea.”

Varian snorted. “And what idea is that?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and began back towards his waiting gryphon. Wrathion scoffed, insulted at having someone turn his back on him, even if that someone was the High King of the Alliance, and hesitated for a moment before following.

“I will explain when we get up there, of course,” Wrathion said, as Varian remounted his gryphon. The Black Prince went to clasp his hands behind his back before remembering his cast. He flexed his left hand awkwardly, unsure what to do with himself. The other gryphon riders watched him with open distrust.

The huge mount hissed as Wrathion came too close, and the Black Prince eyed it warily before glancing back up at the King of Stormwind.

Varian sighed loudly in exasperation. “Fine,” the king said. “Under one condition.”

Wrathion raised a brow, but said nothing, and looked at the king expectantly.

“You will be following my orders as much as my men and women. I’ll listen to your advice, but do not debate with me. I am not about to be slowed down by arguing with you when my son is in danger.”

Wrathion inwardly bristled. You are arguing with me now, the dragon thought. They could have been at the Wall already. Impatience and frustration clawed at his chest. The Black Prince opened his mouth to argue -… but snapped it closed and grimaced. He would be wasting more time, too.

So he smiled, though it looked false, and he knew it. “Very well,” Wrathion said. “Now can we please go to the Wall?”

“Get on the gryphon.”

“… I don’t believe your bird likes me very much.”

“Then you can fly after us, can’t you?”

Wrathion grumbled. He transformed into his whelp form and quickly landed on the gryphon’s flank, hiding behind the King to avoid the mount’s look; the beast didn’t seem to see him.

“You should ‘lighten up,’ King Varian,” Wrathion said with a small coo to his voice. “As I said, you can easily trust m -”

“I don’t trust you,” Varian interrupted. “But my son is in danger, and you know more about this than I do; I’m forced to rely on what you have to say. Don’t mistake circumstance for trust.”

Wrathion rolled his eyes, knowing Varian couldn’t see. The king certainly was an uptight individual.

The gryphon chortled. The reins jingled and cracked in Varian’s hands as the king pulled them back.

The whelp buried his claws, carefully, into the flank of the black gryphon; he didn’t want to fly back off the side when they took off. He normally would have curled around Anduin’s shoulder or curled into his arms, but riding with the king was a… different affair.

Varian turned the gryphon to face the others.

“We’re going to the top of the Wall. My son is in the Dread Wastes or Townlong Steppes. We’ll plan accordingly there.” In a lower voice, just for Wrathion’s ears, the king added, “And if I find you have lied to me and endangered my son further in any way, you’ll come to regret it, dragon, regardless of how much Anduin cares for you.”

The reins snapped back. The gryphon’s black and brown wings unfolded, and with a leaping bound they jumped into the sky, heading to the Wall.

Wrathion gripped on tight. The other gryphon rides followed behind them. Wrathion hunkered down closer to the gryphon, wings tight against his body, and they sped up to the top of the Wall.


	13. Chapter 13

“These harpoon guns are for the Mantid, and more recently the Thunder King. We are running low on supplies after the Swarm and Lei Shen’s arrival -”

“The Swarm’s over, and Lei Shen is dead. We will pay whatever cost for the guns.”

Wrathion watched the Shado-pan marksman and Varian negotiate as he leaned against the Wall to his back. He had been surprisingly quiet for the past hour as they had flown up the Wall and had met with the Shado-pan atop it, who were already roused from the booming commotion of Sabellian and Alexstrasza’s brief scuffle; Varian had given him scalding looks whenever the dragon had opened his mouth, and so the Black Prince, irritated, had bowed out and glared from the side in silence.

“So you’re the son of Deathwing?”

Wrathion glanced over. One of the gryphon riders – one of the three who had been so quick to raise his rifle – had come up next to the dragon without the Prince realizing it. It was a night elf ranger who wore the blue and gold regalia of the Alliance, with his purple hair strapped in a long ponytail behind him.

The Black Prince squinted up at the elf, raised a brow, then looked back at Varian and the Shado-pan. “Yes,” Wrathion said automatically. He frowned. Maybe he wasn’t, anymore.

He shrugged it off. It hardly mattered; no one would know the truth about his true, mixed parentage, anyway. He could say Deathwing was his father as he had and no one would know the casual lie behind it.

“My relatives were killed in the floods that took Darkshore,” the elf said. “At the beginning of the Cataclysm.”

Wrathion resisted the urge to roll his eyes. What, was the elf going to somehow blame him for the Cataclysm like most often did?

“Unfortunate,” the Black Prince said, off-handedly. He did not look at the elf, but instead continued to stare at Varian and the Shado-pan. Much to his annoyance, he’d missed what the Shado-pan’s answer had been to Varian’s offer of payment because of the night elf, judging by how the red-furred pandaren glanced over her shoulder and beckoned over one of her comrades who stood further behind her, manning the Wall.

The elf’s mouth opened again; Wrathion shot up a hand and, palm flat in the air, fingers splayed, silenced the ranger with the snap of movement.

“I am trying to listen to your King,” Wrathion said with annoyance. “You may complain to me about my Father’s doings later if my brother does not burn you alive in the coming hours. And -” he glanced at the night elf and smiled without kindness. “ - I am sure I have heard the same complaint from other… adventurers like yourself. Your’s will no doubt be any different.” He looked back at the King and dropped his hand, ignoring the insulted grumble from the night elf. Luckily the ranger moved away, and Wrathion allowed himself to relax with a huff.

“I understand your struggle, King Wrynn, but understand there is still much to do even after the Thunder King’s death. A single gun can sway the tide.” This was the new pandaren who the red had asked over, a thick-set warrior who hoisted a polearm and sported a scar that ran in an ugly zig-zag down his face.

Varian sighed loud enough for Wrathion to hear the frustration shake in his exhale. Wrathion tapped his hand against the Wall’s side, and locked and relocked his jaw. He glanced out over the opposite Wall, looking out over the Dread Wastes. Not even one Mantid tried to fly over; it was barren and quiet and still on the other bleak, blue-black side.

Taran Zhu is being stingy, Wrathion thought sourly, as he looked back over at the small group. He tapped his fingers again. Trust that old pandaren to keep up his well-deserved distrust of both Horde and the Alliance, a distrust that had apparently leaked to the two commanders speaking to Varian.

The Shado-pan could easily afford to lease at least two harpoon guns with this slack level of activity, Wrathion knew. Perhaps Varian did, too.

They just needed to make the pandaren give it up.

“My son’s life might depend on those damn guns,” Varian said, bristling, shoulders set. “Name a price and I’ll pay it, and you can build more harpoons with the funds!”

Wrathion scanned the crowd of Shado-pan. Yes, he thought, Anduin’s life might just depend on the harpoons – and the chains Left was bringing, of course.

He shifted uncomfortably. And he might also be able to kill or bring down Sabellian. That was the main thing, he tried to tell himself, though the strange curl of sour, dull worry in his stomach refused to go away, suggesting it was not the ‘main thing,’ much to his annoyance.

Wrathion’s eyes caught on one of the Shado-pan in the crowd. He squinted –… then grinned widely as the recognition clicked. Even though the lower part of the pandaren’s furred face was hidden by the thick red and black mask of the faction, Wrathion remembered, there at the Thunder King’s forge, the pandaren’s dark, near-red eyes glancing back at him as they pushed back the Mogu from the Black Prince’s work.

Wrathion’s grinned widened. Oh, an ally. This might be influential to Varian’s argument.

The dragon straightened from his lean and, casually, sauntered over to the group of Shado-pan, careful to keep to the side of the agitated King and Shado-pan lieutenants. No doubt Varian would send him a scowl if he saw Wrathion dare move, the travesty of it.

Wrathion kept his wide grin as he slid up to stand at the side of the pandaren. The warrior’s red eyes flickered over to him.

“Hello, Black Prince,” the Shado-pan murmured first. Wrathion’s grin turned sly; good. The pandaren remembered him. Wrathion nodded, but kept his eyes on Varian in order to look inconspicuous to the King.

“Greetings,” Wrathion murmured back. He watched as the two Shado-pan lieutenants up ahead began to turn to one another and speak in low, harsh voices. “I don’t suppose you can share why your dear commanders are so intent on keeping their harpoons, hm?”

The pandaren didn’t answer for a moment. One of his comrades glanced back at them, squinted, then looked back at the officers.

“The Thunder King took a heavy toll on our resources.” He nodded his head to the Dread Wastes to their left. “We’re wary of the Mantid’s rise again. The next Empress has been elevated and even then, we still aim to push out the last scatters of resistance at the Isle of Thunder. Taran Zhu will not like guns we need going to Alliance.”

Wrathion rolled his eyes. “Please. You have worse to worry about than the annoyance of Taran Zhu’s.” He nodded to Varian. “Like the Alliance king right in front of you.”

“Mm.” The red cloth at the pandaren’s mask flickered with a new wind coming forth from the east; Wrathion wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell of smoke that it drew with it. “I suppose.”

Wrathion took a deep breath; his impatience, which had lessened upon getting to the Wall, was starting to bubble up again.

“Do you know who the king’s son is?” The Black Prince whispered, his voice hoarse with the impatience he felt. “Anduin Wrynn, the priest who destroyed the Divine Bell before you Shado-pan even knew where it was. Your Taran Zhu and certainly the rest of you owe him a debt for doing what you should have accomplished with that Sha-infested artifact and saving him from a very grim fate of being crushed beneath the rubble.”

Wrathion stopped himself. His voice had gotten bitter near the end.

The pandaren glanced at him; his serious eyes softened a fraction.

“I know who Anduin Wrynn is,” the Shado-pan murmured. “We all do.”

The Black Prince stared the warrior down – or, well, up, considering the pandaren was taller than he was. The pandaren sighed, readjusted the crossbow at his back, and nodded.

“I will speak to the commanders. A moment.”

The Shado-pan disengaged himself from the ranks and made his way to the two pandaren who were still arguing in hushed voices to one another. Wrathion watched, pleased with himself; he rubbed at his still-aching shoulders from catching Anduin as the red-eyed pandaren interrupted.

They spoke low; the Black Prince could not hear them. He made his way up to where he had been leaning before and, feeling confident, fixed the king, who watched the three Shado-pan speak with crossed arms and a scowl, with a smug smile. Varian did not see him.

After a long, quiet moment, the only sounds the flapping of the red flags that flittered high above them and the gentle whisper of the warmer eastern wind, the lieutenants began to nod to each other; they had come to an understanding, it seemed. The red-eyed pandaren bowed low to them, straightened, and set Wrathion with a look. The Black Prince nodded back, and the warrior once again took his place in the ranks.

“Very well. We will give you the harpoon guns of your choosing,” the female pandaren said, the one Varian had spoken to first. The king relaxed, but only just; Wrathion, meanwhile, smirked widely. “For your son.”

“How much -”

The pandaren shook her head. “No. No payment. We will explain to Taran Zhu if he asks who the harpoon guns were needed to save.”

Varian nodded. The remaining stiffness of his pose dispersed in the slouching of his shoulders and the uncurling of his crossed arms. “You have my thanks.”

The pandaren nodded back. “We will help ready them for you. For a dragon of the size you described, I would advise at least three harpoon guns.”

“We’ll wait on that for now,” Wrathion spoke up. Varian shot him a glare.

“What?” The king snapped, and took a deep breath. Wrathion watched, vaguely amused, as Varian tried to rein in his temper. “Just an hour ago you were mewling at me to ‘hurry up,’ and now you want to wait?”

Wrathion smiled at him. “Have you seen the size of the harpoon guns, King Varian?” He gestured with his hand to the singular machine-of-war that sat positioned far to their right near the next tower. It was taller than the Black Prince in height, and its red, black, and golden paint shined dimly in the starry darkness. Its sculpted cloud serpent head stretched out into the notches against the border of the Wall, a golden harpoon shoved into its open gullet. By all accounts, it was large, expensive, and heavy; carrying three, even with the amount of gryphon riders they had, would be a burden.

“They will be difficult to carry very far. We are in the Dread Wastes now; what if the Blacktalons I sent find my dear brother in Townlong or even in Kun-lai in the north, hm?” Wrathion’s smile brightened a little too smugly; he was getting back at the king for treating him like something less than what he was. “Do you really wish to burden your soldiers with such an unneeded weight?” Wrathion nodded his head to the Alliance to the right, who nearly mirrored the Shado-pan on the opposite side with their stiff standing of ranks.

Varian scowled at him. Wrathion kept his smile.

The king glanced at the pandaren. “The guns are positioned along the entirety of the Wall?”

“Yes.”

Wrathion piped up again. “Would not going to the nearest section of the Wall where Sabe- ?”

“Stop speaking.” Varian shot him another glare. Wrathion’s smile curdled. “Fine. We’ll wait for your Agents.” He turned, nodded to the pandaren lieutenants, and tromped over, metal boots clanking, to the Black Prince; Wrathion stopped himself from leaning back as the king approached.

“And we’ll wait for these ‘chains’ you’re so intent on having,” Varian added in a lowered, gruff voice. Wrathion’s smile was gone, replaced with a bored look as he fixed his eyes on the king.

“The chains are necessary,” the Black Prince said with a sigh. “The harpoons themselves might just bring my brother down, but the chains will promise they will.”

“Simple chains can be broken by a dragon’s strength.”

“It’s a good thing these are not ‘simple chains,’ then, King Wrynn,” Wrathion replied. “Titan technology performs admirably.”

“We’ll see,” Varian grumbled, before turning and walking to his waiting soldiers.

Wrathion eyed him, rolled his eyes, then looked out over the Wall. The kypari trees were hazy in the distance. He scanned the scrubby ground. The Blacktalons he’d sent to scout when he’d arrived on the Wall should hopefully be reporting back soon; he’d told them to hurry it up.

And, hopefully, Left would be contacting him shortly, as well.

Wrathion glanced up at the stars. They were dimming, winking out as the night slowly began to give way to the dawn once again, though the dawn was not yet for some hours.

Unable to do anything else, the Black Prince ground his teeth and waited.

—-

Anduin Wrynn was not very happy.

He watched, quietly, as Sabellian peered down the large pointed archway set deep into the enormous tree that towered above them. The archway’s architecture was amber in color and glossy in texture; Anduin squinted up at it. It was mantid architecture, the prince knew. He frowned. He had never seen a mantid, and if he was honest with himself, he was not sure if he wanted to.

Anduin sighed and leaned his forehead against the black, smooth-scaled paw that held him, closing his eyes. He wasn’t happy, his leg hurt fiercely from the fall, and he was unequivocally exhausted – and he could truly do nothing to make Sabellian let him go. He’d tried everything for the past two hours as they’d tromped along the Dread Wastes and then Townlong, but no amount of calm words, or angry words, or trying to wriggle out of the dragon’s grasp had come to any fruition.

“This will do,” Sabellian murmured. Anduin looked up, squinting, his bangs stuck to his forehead. Sabellian arched his neck back and his large head came out from the hallway. The dragon snorted. “I suppose hiding underneath a tree is better than attempting to hide in this flat land.”

“This is mantid territory,” Anduin said, quickly. He had hoped Sabellian would have been forced to fight or hide out in the open where Wrathion and he could be on equal ground – but the dragon had stumbled upon this hideaway, and the prince knew that being deeper into the ground in a lair of his own would not bode well for a full out assault on Anduin’s rescuers; with the the bottle-neck of the hallway, Sabellian could easily pick off anyone who tried to come inside without causing harm to himself. “They’ll try to kill you for trespassing.”

“It’s a good thing I am smart enough to smell for enemies, then, young prince,” Sabellian retorted. “There are no bugs in this tree.”

Anduin withheld a sigh. Well, he’d tried.

Sabellian tilted the paw that held Anduin. The prince was confused at to what he was doing before realizing the dragon was tilting him so his right leg was aimed at the ground.

Before he could even muster up a levitation spell, Sabellian dropped him; it was not a high drop, but it felt like it when Anduin’s already aching leg hit first against the ground in a bursting of agony. A guttural yelp escaped him, the sound ringing in his ears, and his vision dotted with a hazy white; he lurched forward and fell on his side, too shocked to do anything.

A hand grabbed him from the back of his collar and hauled him up; Anduin was limp. He scrunched his eyes closed and swallowed, trying to will the pain, that had shot up to his entire right side, away, though the white dots appeared even in the darkness of his mind’s eye; his thoughts muddled, threatening fainting.

“Apologies. I did not want you to try to run when I shifted as you did before,” Sablemane said. Anduin managed to open one tearing-up eye to glare at the dragon, who held him up like a caught hare.

Sablemane didn’t look at him as he made his way into the archway and down the stairs that stretched underneath the roots of the tree. The same amber color enveloped them, and, strangely enough, cast warm light, as if energy shined from within the substance itself. The stairs continued downward at a harsh decline; Anduin could only just make out the bottom as his pain began to slowly ebb away.

Sablemane’s footfalls echoed. Anduin glanced over the dragon; his wounds had stopped bleeding an hour before, but still looked vicious, the gashes tearing up and down across his dark skin, where they peeked out amongst the red and orange robe. His left hand, the one that did not hold Anduin, was limp at his side.

Briefly, Anduin wondered about the dragon’s wing injury. What happened to it when Sablemane shifted? Did the pain disappear? Did it seep into his back? The prince filed that thought about to ask Wrathion, later – if there was a ‘later,’ of course.

They got to the bottom. Ahead of them was a circular room, spacious enough to hold Sabellian’s dragon form, tiled with long, curved flat slabs of tan-orange rock. In the center was a shallow pool of amber liquid, encircled by a small, upraised border. Four archways, like the one outside of the tree, were around the curved outer walls, leading deeper underground. Above were the roots of the tree, intertwined and enormous in size, twice as thick as Anduin’s entire body, and a singular orb of the amber that had made this architecture was held in the roots’ clasp, beautiful and glowing.

Anduin frowned. Despite its alien beauty, there was a faint, strange feeling here, like a prickle on the back of his neck. It made him feel uneasy; the feeling was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it because of its faintness -

“Perfect,” Sablemane said. He let Anduin go; the prince stumbled once before righting himself. His leg hurt so badly he couldn’t put any amount of weight on it, and like a lame horse he bent his leg at the knee and leaned hard on his left, trying hard not to go off balance and fall on his face. He wished he had his cane; it was at Lion’s Landing.

The prince looked at Sablemane, surprised when the dragon didn’t grab him again. “You’re not going to -?”

“Tie you up? No. The leg of yours is all the handicap I need to stop you from escaping.” He nodded his head to the stairs. “And you cannot run up those easily, I’m afraid.”

Anduin ground his teeth.

With a quick movement he snapped his arm up and the Light began to bloom harshly in center of his palm; if he could hit the dragon with Holy Fire again, he could -

Before the prince had time to dodge, Sablemane snatched Anduin’s wrist and yanked him closer; his strong grip began to twist against Anduin’s hand, pain building as the prince’s bones were strained, and Anduin bit his lip to stop himself from crying out -

Sablemane stopped right when the bones were near to breaking. Anduin swallowed hard; his whole arm shook. The sudden constant pain in his wrist rivaled the pain in his leg.

“Do not try that again,” the dragon warned. “I do not want you to end up like your dragon.”

He let go. The pain dispersed. Anduin snatched his hand back.

Sablemane stepped away. He shifted into his dragon form and laid out in front of the entrance; he took up half of the room. Anduin ducked and nearly fell back into the pool behind him when one of the dragon’s wings stretched out, narrowly missing him.

Sullen, Anduin watched him. At least he wasn’t bound up, he thought. Unable to stretch without going off balance, he sat down carefully; the floor was strangely warm -… or perhaps that was just the heat coming off of Sabellian’s hulking form.

The prince watched as the dragon looked over the scabbing wounds along the black scales and drew flame on some of them. The room began to grow uncomfortably hot. Anduin wiped his forehead against his sleeve, mumbled wordlessly, then crossed his arms, bringing his left leg up to bend so he could rest his arms and chin on it, his back arched forward.

This was a bit… odd, and not quite what Anduin had expected – though his experience with being kidnapped by dragons was limited to Onyxia, and she had tried to feed him to her children. He’d expected some other sort of direness here in this makeshift lair, but Sabellian was ignoring him, sprawled out like a dozing lion.

… Though Sabellian nearly breaking his wrist just moments before showed there was no less amount of danger here – it was just dependent on how obedient Anduin was with his captor.

“You’re going to kill him,” Anduin spoke up, after Sabellian had stopped blowing fire across his wounds and had laid his head down against his uninjured paw, “Aren’t you?”

The dragon glanced at him. “Yes.”

“Even if he helps you.”

“Of course.” Sabellian’s good wing shuffled. “What kind of father would I be if I did not kill what aimed to murder my children?”

Anduin looked down. He had no argument for that – though he wished he did.

“Maybe if you got to know him -”

Sabellian laughed, a deep rumble in his chest; the prince could feel it vibrate beneath his feet. Anduin glanced up again.

“Are you truly suggesting some sort of ‘brotherly bonding?’ Perhaps the heat is getting to you, Anduin Wrynn. There. Splash in the pool behind you. Do not human hatchlings like yourself enjoy swimming?”

“I’m not a hatchling.”

“You are small enough to be one.”

Anduin sighed, aggravated. “Nevermind,” he mumbled. He busied himself with healing the pain from his leg and wrist; the Light blossomed from his chest and into his palm, smooth and comforting, and he relaxed, closing his eyes and continuing to lean his head on his pulled-up knee as he worked his glowing fingers into his aching thigh, then to his wrist.

“You are a well-behaved hostage,” Sabellian said after a while. Anduin opened his eyes. “Better than Wrathion – though, granted, you have tried to burn my eyes with Holy Fire, but that was easily avoided.”

“Wrathion may not come for me.” Anduin frowned after he said it; he was torn. He wanted Wrathion to come find him, but -… then Wrathion would be in danger, and Anduin didn’t want that, either. He wasn’t sure what to feel.

Sabellian snorted. “Unlikely. However,” he breathed a heavy sigh, and Anduin squinted as the warm air from the dragon’s nose pushed at his bangs, “If he continues his selfish streak, I will find another way to lure him.”

They both went quiet after that. Anduin tilted his head on his crossed arms against his knee, his sleeve cool against his cheek, and looked up at the stairway that Sabellian half-concealed. He tried to ignore the strange energy he felt at the back of his neck; it was faint enough to, at least, but still uncomfortable.

He hated feeling this helpless. Anduin took a deep breath. He had felt the first grasps of independence when wrecked upon Pandaria, had come into it when exploring this wild continent alone and meeting its people, its gods, no longer bound in the Keep of Stormwind and his father’s watchful eye – and had lost it when the Bell had crushed him, and his injuries forced him inside white walls so like the Keep of Stormwind’s, and once again under the orders of his father.

Being able to walk again, even with the cane, had been a blessing, another taste of doing things on his own. But his leg was still holding him back – and now he could do little about the large dragon sitting in front of him, and was, as he had been seven years ago when kidnapped by Onyxia, waiting on someone to rescue him.

It frustrated him. He was no longer a child, but he felt like one, now. He should be saving himself!

He shook his head and scrunched his eyes closed. No. He had to try to relax and think about this realistically. Sabellian was Deathwing’s son, his last son; Anduin doubted Varian himself would be able to escape the situation the prince found himself now. That made him feel a bit better.

But not quite. Anduin opened his eyes once again and, unable to do little else, glumly watched the stairway, waiting.

—-

Though the night sky was becoming lighter, with dawn nearing against the horizon, Wrathion and Varian’s mood were becoming much darker.

Wrathion, hand on his hip, glared out at the Dread Wastes. The Alliance milled about behind him; they were in the same section of the Wall they had been at an hour ago –… all waiting for the Black Prince’s Blacktalons to report.

The dragon took a deep breath, ignoring the ache in his healing ribs. What was taking them so long? He raised his hand and rubbed at his eyes before sliding his palm down the lower half of his face, grumbling.

Wrathion had felt immensely proud of himself when boasting to Varian about waiting -… but not anymore. His glare darkened out at the Dread Wastes. The edge of the horizon, just visible, was dark blue. The stars were mostly gone. The smell of smoke from the doused fires at the Valley was still heavy around them.

At least it wasn’t cold up here, Wrathion thought.

“Any word?” Varian said with a grumble of his own from behind him. Wrathion glanced back, eyes hooded, before looking out at the Dread Wastes again.

“No,” he replied, voice flat.

They said nothing after that; there was no need to, though Wrathion could feel the irritation coming off of Varian behind him.

Like Anduin in the cave, Wrathion thought, almost smiling but stopping himself. He scanned the plains to distract himself.

Minutes clocked by. The gryphons were restless, especially Varian’s beast, who continually snapped at its other kin with growing aggravation – just like its rider to the Alliance soldiers and champions. The assorted group of Alliance murmured quietly to themselves as Varian paced back and forth; his metal boots clanging against the rough stone was just about the only sound up on the Wall.

“I’m sending my own riders,” Varian announced after a while of his own silence. His pacing stopped. Wrathion rolled his eyes and, composing himself with a mask of calm over his face, turned around to face the king. He leaned back against the Wall behind him. “This is taking far too long for my liking. Anduin -”

“Don’t act too rashly, King Varian,” Wrathion said, smiling just slightly, a mere upturn at the edge of his lips, “Don’t you recall that ‘dragons can fly?’ You said so yourself.”

Varian bristled. Before the king could respond, Wrathion continued.

“Flying beasts like your gryphons will attract much more attention than my rogues,” Wrathion said. He paused in mock thoughfulness. “Didn’t Chi-ji teach you something about patience?”

Varian growled. Wrathion’s confidence and smile evaporated as the king grabbed him by the tabard and hauled him up to eye level, his feet dangling, and shoved his face only inches away from the king’s.

“I should remind you that you agreed to follow my orders,” Varian rumbled. “I’ve learned patience. It’s been keeping me from pushing you off of the Wall.”

“I can fly back up the Wall,” was the first thing that came out of Wrathion’s mouth. He regretted it. Varian scowled.

“I can easily arrange that.”

A bright red flash flickered at the edge of Wrathion’s eyes. He grinned wide – it disarmed Varian, whose brows scrunched together with some confusion over the reaction.

“A moment, King Varian!” Wrathion said, then closed his eyes and honed in on the gem that had contacted him. It did not take very long.

Well, what is it? Where are they?

In Townlong, my Prince, replied a gruff voice. Sabellian’s tracks lead to one of the Matid’s abandoned fortresses. Sik’vess. We dared get no closer.

Wrathion grinned – then hesitated. Is that not the same kypari tree the Sha of Hate was defeated in?

It is the same.

A twisting of unease prickled at his gut. He wanted no more dealings with the Sha for a very, very long time -… but the Sha of Hate had been defeated.

But so had the Sha of Despair by Anduin himself, and it had been the one to take Wrathion.

Very well, Wrathion replied after a moment. He could not afford to hesitate any longer. How far?

From your position, my Prince, two hours walk along the Wall, or an hour by flight.

A bit too far for Wrathion’s liking, but it would have to do. Good. We shall meet you there.

He cut off transmission and opened his eyes; Varian and the rest of the Alliance and Shado-pan that had remained were staring at him oddly.

Wrathion smiled brightly, ignoring the looks. “Your son is in Townlong.”

Varian let go of him and turned, without a word, his eyes stiff.

“On your mounts!” The king barked to the Alliance, and the riders complied. The gryphons chortled and bounced, ready to finally move, the sound of their claws scraping against the stone and the leather-and-metal reins clinking loud in the sudden flurry of activity.

“We’ve sent a missive to the other Shado-pan along the Wall,” the pandaren lieutenant said; she stood off to the side, watching. “They will give you their supply of harpoon guns without question, wherever you may land.”

Varian nodded to her. “As I said, you have my thanks.”

The pandaren bowed. The king looked away from her and started towards his restless gryphon.

“Are you just going to stand there, dragon?” Varian said gruffly as he mounted up. Wrathion huffed, shifted into whelp form and, like he had before, clutched onto the back of the beast’s flank. This time, however, the gryphon noticed him and hissed; it snapped its neck back and clacked its beak, and largely missed him. Wrathion hunched down and growled, the fins on the back of his neck lowering.

Varian chuckled under his breath and reined in the gryphon. Wrathion glared at him.

Once the entirety of the Alliance were mounted, Varian turned the gryphon, and they made their way off of the Wall, flying across its side up north to Townlong.

—-

Alexstrasza perched on the highest mountain that bordered the Valley of the Four Winds and the Vale of Eternal Blossoms.

The golden Vale stretched in front of her, glowing with an inward beauty. To her far right were three large, elaborate metal structures of yellows and reds, and right below her was a heightened, shimmering pool whose waters fell into a gentle waterfall to join with an entwining river below. A small village was nestled below the mountains.

The former Aspect glanced over her wounds. They were not dire. The sheared scales were grow again, and the blood would dry and the cuts would heal. She ran a claw over one of the worse gashes along her neck, where Sabellian’s teeth had clamped, and breathed out heavily.

She had acted too rashly, she knew – on all accounts. Alexstrasza stretched out her pink-webbed wings and caught the warm air coming up from the south, mitigating the cold air coming down from the north. The Vale was the perfect temperature – not too hot, but not too cool, and the feeling of Life here was… her other claw gripped against the rock. It was overwhelming, even to her, but in a pleasant way.

The dragon dropped the paw from her neck. She was… troubled. Alexstrasza looked out over the Vale quietly, the jewelry on her horns ringing with the breeze.

She had acted too rashly in going after Sabellian, perhaps, she thought. But the young Alliance prince had moved her, somehow; so she had stayed behind at Lion’s Landing, telling herself that a mere couple of days was not too brash – but then the black dragon had appeared, and, out of some instinct, she had followed.

She sighed. She did not feel guilt for doing so, though something in her was telling her she should have. She was no Dragon Queen any longer; why had she followed? Out of care? Alexstrasza shook her head. Why could she not make sense of it? The answer would have seemed easy when she had been an Aspect; she had done her duty to protect Wrathion, though she had found that perhaps it was not he that she needed to protect, but perhaps his other kin – if what Sabellian said was true, of course.

But this seemed… different. Why?

She was angry at herself. She didn’t know what to do.

Had she acted too boldly in abandoning the Alliance prince? She sighed. Maybe she had. She glanced over at the Wall. But that was not her place any longer – or was it? The former Aspect growled, frustrated. She had been an Aspect for so long she did not know what to do without her title and duty.

Perhaps she should seek out Kalecgos. Was he not here in Pandaria, aiding the Proudmoore woman? Alexstrasza shifted, ignoring the ache in her ankles. No, he had not been Aspect for long, but he had apparently settled into this new world comfortably – unlike herself.

She found herself wondering about the fates of Nozdormu and Ysera. Did they fair as ill as Alexstrasza herself did?

The dragon looked at the Wall again. Kalecgos had sought her help with that artifact – whatever it had been – and she had rudely turned him away. She had been flustered, taken aback by the sudden disintegration of the Accord, despite her calm outward appearance.

Perhaps he could speak with her. The Celestials had guided her as she searched for her new place in this world; maybe a younger dragon could offer advice, and maybe then she could find comfort in her decisions.

She stretched her wings, the air surging about her, and made her way.

—-

They arrived at the section of the Wall nearest to Sik’vess in the next hour.

The Shado-pan manned along the Wall did not seem surprised by the formation of gryphon riders as the Alliance landed along the stone structure; the beasts had been flown hard – Varian had set a quick pace – and sweat gleamed against their leonine hides.

“Hello, King of the Alliance,” called out the largest of the pandaren, a shorter male Shado-pan with an enormous halberd held in one hand. Varian slid off of the mount; Wrathion did, as well, but with decidedly less grace. The flight had not only been fast, but disorienting; he shifted into human form just before he smacked into the ground.

Wrathion wobbled on his feet, cleared his throat, and readjusted his turban and tabard, the scales clinking lightly, and watched Varian approach the pandaren, tempted to walk up with him but resigning himself to staying in the back.

Trying not to cause another argument that would only slow them down was difficult.

Varian nodded, briskly, to the halberd-wielding pandaren. “We’re in need of your harpoon guns.”

The Shado-pan gestured to his right, smiling. “They are ready for your use. There is three available to you, as Mai ordered.” The pandaren glanced back at the gryphons. “You will not be able to fly with them. Too heavy.”

Varian nodded again. His moves were impatient and jerky.

Wrathion looked over at the guns. As the pandaren said, there were three, the same model as the one that had been near the Dread Wastes’ section of the Wall. The cloud serpent heads were all different colors, however: one black, one red, one blue, all snarling and fierce, their gem eyes alight with a sort of mechanical rage.

“We will help ready them. Our scouts will set up our emergency lift to see you safely down the Wall.”

Varian looked back at six gryphon riders he had assigned on the flight over to carry the harpoon guns with their mounts. “Help hook them up.”

Wrathion only watched. He was pleased his plan was coming to fruition. Where would Varian be without his help, he wondered.

The Alliance and Shado-pan were a flurry of movement; chains rustled and clanked, the gryphons squawked and pawed at the stone, and the loud murmuring of the soldiers easing the mounts as the harnesses were hooked on. Against the eastern side of the Wall, the side facing the muted green cliffs and plains of Townlong, other Shado-pan not helping with hooking up the harpoon guns were busying themselves with unloading the lift, hauling the stowed-away contraption from the tower up ahead and tying heavy ropes to its sides to hang it over the Wall. While their movements were quick, their movements were careful, just like the Alliance’s were.

It was strangely mesmerizing. The Alliance and Shado-pan worked together like a well oiled machine; there was little to no bickering between the different races. Wrathion noticed with some interest some of the Alliance champions nodding, as if they knew some of the Shado-pan, to the pandaren that helped them.

Wrathion smirked to himself. Sabellian had no conceivable idea what was about to come after him. Seeing the dragon pummeled and bitten and smashed by Alexstrasza had been nice enough to see, but Wrathion was much more interested in wiping his brother’s smug look off of his face with these harpoons.

The dragon’s eyes flickered over to King Varian. He was helping his officers steady one of the more nervous gryphons, holding the metal harness on the beast’s head still.

Good. The king was distracted. An excellent time to run by another proposal.

Wrathion slid up next to the king, though kept a safe distance; he didn’t want to be grabbed again, even though Varian’s hands were full with the harness. He was quiet for a moment, just watching the soldiers hook the chains up to the gryphon’s saddle, the black harpoon gun behind it, before speaking.

“I have a proposition,” he began. Varian’s jaw locked.

“I’m not surprised,” the king replied.

Wrathion bit back a grumble before continuing. “I would like to keep Sabellian alive.”

Varian glanced over at him without moving his head; his hands were still steady on the gryphon. “What?”

“He could… possibly be of use to me,” Wrathion said. “Killing him can come at a later time, of course. I don’t intend to unleash one of my corrupt brethren against your mighty Alliance,” he added with a small smirk.

“What ‘use’ could he be to you?” Varian asked. The gryphon he was holding bucked up, and without looking away the king pulled the beast back down without so much as a shaking of strain on his shoulders. Wrathion stared, vaguely intimidated, before continuing.

“I’m afraid I can’t share,” the Black Prince sighed. His voice was smooth but smarmy. Varian’s lip threatened to curl. Wrathion didn’t care. “But! You will have your son back. I would say using my plan – which will work – to save dear Anduin is providing of a gift … which would be my brother alive. Don’t you agree?”

Varian took a deep, huffing breath. He turned back to look at the gryphon; the harness was nearly attached. “Fine. As long as my son is safe.”

“I could easily send Sabellian’s head back to you as a show of my good intentions after my work is done. I hear tell you enjoy hanging black dragons’ heads from the arches of Stormwind.”

Varian’s jaw locked and unlocked again; his grip on the gryphon’s harness tightened with a clink.

“Yes. Black dragons who have endangered my son and my kingdom,” Varian responded darkly, his eyes flickering back to Wrathion in a not-so-subtle warning before looking back at the gryphon.

Wrathion decided it was time to back off, with that. He gave the king a wide, toothless smile and moved away again, glancing over the other gryphons as he did so. Two of the harpoon guns were nearly ready to move; all that was left was the lift that the Shado-pan were working on and the last harpoon gun to be hooked up.

Time started to move slower than Wrathion would have liked. He started tapping his foot after a while, deciding to look out over Townlong. He could just make the stretching forms of the other mantid structures inlaid with the kypari trees, but no Sik’vess; that tree was too far west to see. The other kypari trees’ leaves stretched out to the sky, their leaves dark against the sunrise which bloomed the horizon in red and yellows.

Not for the first time the Black Prince’s mind drifted to Anduin. Sabellian wouldn’t dare to hurt him as he had hurt Wrathion in the Kun-lai cave, the dragon assured himself. There was no reason to – was there? His foot stopped tapping and one of his sharp teeth bit down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood; he only noticed when he felt it running down his chin and, hurriedly, before anyone saw, he brushed the blood away with his left hand.

A red flash took him out of his unwanted worries. He jumped, surprised; who could – wait.

He snatched onto the gem contacting him, hopeful.

We are a half hour away, my Prince, came Left’s voice. Wrathion grinned. A mere half hour! The lift and the harpoons would be ready within that time.

Excellent timing, Left, Wrathion replied, struggling to keep his enthusiasm in check and failing miserably. How on earth did you manage that so quickly? It had been – what, two and half hours, perhaps more, when Wrathion last spoke to the orc? Though, granted, they were hauling the Chains from the Engine as he had contacted her – the rest of the time must have been spent traveling.

One of the champions you requested has a proto-drake, my Prince. The beast is large and fast enough to carry the Chains.

Wrathion nodded to himself. Hah! He knew the champions would come in handy, as they always did… even though some of them seemed to know his double-sided support of both Horde and Alliance thanks to Sabellian. That soured his mood a bit, but Wrathion was quick to brush that thought aside.

Good! I will see you shortly.

Their connection fizzled. Wrathion made a pleased humming noise in the back of his throat. This was going favorably; it was about time things were going well for him, he noted, and looked over at the harpoon guns and, with some happiness, imagined them gouging into Sabellian’s shoulders.

—-

One of the Alliance soldiers saw the proto-drake coming down from the mountains of Kun-lai first.

The gnome shouted in alarm. The group looked up, nearly as one, as she gestured wildly to the growing blot of dark blue that neared them. The harpoons were ready to move, and the lift was nearly complete.

Wrathion looked up as well, saw the hulking blue form closing in on the Wall, and quickly put up a hand.

“Don’t worry yourselves,” he called out among the murmuring. “It is only an ally of mine.”

Varian glanced at him. “The chains, I hope.”

Wrathion smirked at him. “The chains.”

The proto-drake closed the distance between it and the Wall quickly. It was a monstrously sized creature, its thick, wide scales a varying mix of blues – cerulean, azure, teal – and Wrathion stared at it, eyes wide. He’d never seen a proto-drake before. The beast’s plated head was big enough to tear his head off if it so chose, but Wrathion walked closer anyway as the primordial animal flapped its wings harder, its rider, a Forsaken, reining it in from landing just yet.

“Amazing,” he murmured, mostly to himself, as he looked the creature over. How fascinating – and slightly disorienting - to think his ancestors had been one of these… animals. The air from the proto-drake’s flapping wings pushed against his face.

His attention shifted. In the proto-drake’s clutches were the chains, the tail ends of the large links wrapped around the haunches of the beast. Large leather strips were underneath the coils, protecting the beast from the chain’s ominous buzzing.

“Drop them,” he ordered as he stared at the chains, a sort of hunger in the red of his eyes. The Forsaken glanced at the Alliance. Behind her was Left and another Blacktalon human.

“Disregard the faction behind me. They won’t be harming a neutral party,” Wrathion said impatiently. The Forsaken mumbled something to herself – Left glared at the Horde’s back, leading Wrathion to think the Forskane had said an insult to him, but he was too enthralled with the arrival of the chains to truly care – and tugged back on the reins of the blue dragon. The proto-drake made a deep growl before its large talons uncurled, and the chains, with a strange clanging – not so much a metallic sound, but the sound of like crystals clashing together – fell to the stone floor of the Wall in a looped pile.

“Thank you, champion. I will give you your reward after this ordeal is over,” Wrathion said without looking up. Hadn’t he asked for two champions? Perhaps the other was elsewhere. No matter. It didn’t matter to him. The chains were here and that was all he cared about.

There were two heavy thuds as Left and the other Blacktalon jumped from the proto-drake.

The Forsaken laughed, a dry, airy thing. “Whatever you say, Black Prince. Let’s hope you’re not lying about that like all the rest of the rumors I’ve heard seem to suggest, eh?”

Wrathion glanced up, glaring. “You’re dismissed, thank you.”

The Forsaken gave a drunken-like salute. “Of course, your Princeliness.”

The proto-drake pulled up with a roar. Its feet found purchased on the side of the Wall, and with a great bound it shot back up into the air. The beast and its rider quickly disappeared down the side as quickly as they had come.

Good, Wrathion thought, inwardly scowling at the Forsaken’s words. She’d done what he’d asked and he needed no more of her.

The Black Prince looked back at the chains as Left and the other Blacktalon silently flanked out behind him. The chains were vaguely see-through, and looked as if they were made of light blue glass; each link was so large that they were as long as Wrathion’s waist was tall, if not larger. They buzzed with an audible energy. Wrathion’s fingers twitched. They were perfect.

“That’s all?” Varian said to his side; the Black Prince glanced at him and then again at the chains. “I was expecting something more hardy. Those look like they’ll break at any time.”

“Your worries are uneducated, King Varian,” Wrathion assured. “Titan technology has lasted centuries – eons! They hardly ‘break’ easily.”

The human king made a low, unimpressed noise. His arms were crossed.

“The same sorts of chains were used to hold Yogg’saron,” Wrathion continued, annoyed that Varian wasn’t impressed by his contribution. He tapped the end of his foot against one of the links. The link buzzed violently and he pulled his feet back with a quick, surprise grimace as a bolt of electricity shot up his foot and into his leg, the hairs on the back of his neck and arms rising at the static. He forced the grimace off; that had been a bit too much than he had been expecting to feel.

Varian raised a brow at him. Wrathion cleared his throat. “Well. There,” the Black Prince said. “They can hold Sabellian. Easily.”

“Mm.” Varian turned to look over the long pile of chains – they were at least three yards long in total length. “Alright. But remember that Yogg’saron broke out of the chains and his prison. Let’s hope these don’t do the same thing.”

“Sabellian isn’t an Old God,” Wrathion retorted. “He’s just controlled by them.”

“And how do you suggest my soldiers carry them without being shocked?”

Wrathion gestured to the large sheaths of leather that lay in heaps underneath the pile. “Use the same materials my Agents used,” he said, as if it was obvious. Varian’s eyes sharpened, but otherwise he said nothing.

The king turned. Without so much as a command, the night elf ranger, the one who had spoken to Wrathion, and another dwarven warrior ran up and began to ready the chains for transport.

“We can finally go after my son,” Varian said after a loud sigh. “This plan of yours had better work, dragon.”

“It’ll work,” Wrathion assured. “Trust me.”

Varian shot him a look and went to help his troops with the chains.

Wrathion turned behind him to face Left.

“An easy assignment, I trust,” the Black Prince said, and gave her a toothy grin.

“An easy assignment,” Left repeated with a nod. “The Forsaken was a bad choice. The other champion was fine; they left after helping haul up the chains.”

“So I saw,” Wrathion murmured. He took a deep breath. “Yes, well. Well done.” He gave a quick nod to the other Blacktalon, a male human with shortly cropped brown hair and a boyish face that didn’t quite fit with the foreboding black leather uniform he wore.

Left bowed her head suddenly. Wrathion stared back at her, startled.

“I apologize for not being there to stop Sabellian, my Prince,” the orc said, her voice gruff. “It was my mistake. I should have -”

“Left,” Wrathion said with a small laugh. He put a hand up to stop her from speaking. “It’s quite alright. I sent you away; it was no fault of yours.”

The orc’s head lifted, ponytail swaying. She looked unsure.

“Really,” he added. Left nodded slowly; her tusks tilted back and forth as she ground her teeth, as if she wasn’t sure how else to respond.

There was a loud clanking of wood. Wrathion glanced over his shoulder. The soldiers were carefully hooking up the chains to the harpoons; when the machine-of-war was fired, the harpoon would fly out – and the chains would trail behind it.

“I have a report, my Prince. From Blade’s Edge.”

Wrathion snapped his head back so quickly he pulled a muscle in his neck. He flinched and rubbed his neck with his left hand, but did not stop looking at Left.

“Go on,” he said, excited.

Left, however, did not look enthusiastic – though she hardly ever did, Wrathion thought.

“The ambush did not go as hoped,” the orc started. Her voice was flat, without emotion. “There was more in the brood than the party expected.”

Wrathion stared.

“More in what way?” Wrathion’s voice was low and hoarse, a hiss.

“A scout reported most of them were younger. Hatchlings, young drakes. There were only half a dozen elder drakes.” Her crossbow shifted with a gentle clack of steel. Wrathion hardly heard it. He hardly heard the Alliance behind him. His ears were beginning to ring.

“Only half a dozen,” he repeated, disbelieving. He took a deep breath. The ringing in his ears was becoming louder; a prickling anger picked at the back of his eyes, hot. “And it did not ‘go as hoped.’”

“The rogues managed to poison the Netherwing leader who stood guard. The assault would have gone as planned, quiet, but the single mature dragon was roused and the Blacktalons resigned themselves to a full attack. They were pushed back. Their numbers were cut in half.”

Wrathion stared. He swallowed noisily and took another deep, steadying breath. “And how many dragons did they kill?”

Left hesitated.

“Left,” Wrathion snapped. One of the Alliance glanced over at him, and the Black Prince lowered his voice. “How many?”

“The Agent to report wasn’t certain. I was told it was chaotic. He thought maybe one had fallen in battle -”

“One?!”

“- And that some might have fallen from their wounds after your Blacktalons retreated.”

One of Wrathion’s eyes twitched. His left hand’s fingers curled and uncurled.

“Half of the Agents I sent were killed,” Wrathion said, slowly, his voice low and calculated, “And they may have killed – may – one of Sabellian’s children. One.”

“Yes, my Prince.”

“How.”

“I am told the mature dragon was the stand-in leader, my Prince, and the strongest. The Agent reported her elemental strength was surprising.”

“Elemental strength.”

“She used the earth.”

“Oh, I can do that!” Wrathion said with a whine. In his sudden tantrum he eyed a small, thumb-sized pebble that had once been part of the Wall, eroded off by the wind and sent it, with his powers, flying. It smacked against one of the Alliance’s metal helmets and the soldier yelped. Wrathion snapped his head back to Left, mouth set in a wide, grim line and his eyes wide and nearly wild. “See?”

“… Yes, my Prince,” Left said. Something about the way she said it made him angrier, but he took another breath and tried, tried to calm himself down. He tugged at his leather sash, rolled and fluffed his shoulders back, and clacked his teeth so hard that it was audible. More of the Alliance, those not helping with loading the chains, had noticed his meltdown and were beginning to watch from the corners of their eyes; they thought he couldn’t see them, but he did. He tried to not let that boost up his frustration again.

“This was not the report I was expecting,” he admitted when he finally had himself under control, though his voice was still strained. Left said nothing.

A loud metallic groan and grind behind him caught his attention. Wrathion glanced back – not missing how the Alliance who had been watching him looked away quickly – and saw that the harpoons, heaved forward by the gryphons, were being loaded into the lift, the chains tied to the machines-of-war.

“We’ll talk about this after,” Wrathion murmured. He shifted into whelp form and hovered, wings beating. “Once Sabellian is taken care of.” And Anduin is safe, he thought to himself.

Wrathion eyed the kypari trees in the distance. His Agents might have not succeeded, but he would against their father. And then he would send champions to Blade’s Edge – yes, perfect! His champions had killed Nalice, and she had been the ambassador to his Flight, fully grown and stronger, no doubt, than this stand-in protector at Blade’s Edge; they could easily kill another like her.

But first came Sabellian. Wrathion watched the lift lower, the first harpoon disappearing beyond the side.

—-

The trek to Sik’vess was easier than Wrathion had initially thought it would be.

The gently sloping plains of Townlong were crisscrossed with worn dirt paths of the Shado-pan and braver merchants who wanted to try to gather previous materials beyond the Wall. While the sun had risen, dark, layered clouds blocked its light and cast a shadow across the land; only bursting streams of the rising sun managed to find an escape from the clouds, shining in an angular arc to touch upon the ground in spotlights like the hands of a god.

Wrathion perched on the top of the black harpoon gun and looked at one of said-streams now, trying to figure out what the Tauren called their sun goddess. An’le? An’sha?

“Unfortunate yer’ no drake, yer Highness,” called the dwarf who sat on one of the gryphons hauling the gun Wrathion sat on. The warrior looked back and grinned, the curly hair wild around her face. “You coulda’ been haulin’ these yerself.”

Wrathion wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think so.”

“No?”

“No,” the dragon assured, nearly rolling his eyes. “Dragons are not mere pack animals, thank you.”

“Neither is me gryphon here, but ‘guess we do what we must fer the Alliance.” The dwarf shrugged largely and looked away.

Then I am glad I am not part of your Alliance, Wrathion thought sourly, or any other faction but my own. Even Alexstrasza herself abided to laws and regulations despite the Dragonflights breaking apart.

The thought of Alexstrasza made him uneasy. He shook his head and forgot the train of thought, just as the harpoon gun went over a small bump in the dirty road and rattled underneath him; he held on fast to with his claws, wings splaying out for balance so he wouldn’t fall. He relaxed when the gun righted itself again.

“Stop.” The order was from Varian. He was in front, his monstrous gryphon helping to haul the red harpoon gun. He had come to a halt, and the others were quick to follow. The rolling, grinding sound, louder than Wrathion would have liked it to be, of the wheels of the guns went quiet.

Ahead was Sik’vess. Up close, it towered high above them, the leaves thick and dark blueish-green. The bark was smooth, and small cracks inside showed the glow of kyparite, the mantid’s life-source, within. Wrathion could just make out a large amber archway near the bottom of tree.

Wrathion drew himself up, heart jumping into his throat with excitement. Finally!

“Where are the agents of yours, wyrm?” Varian asked, locking him in place with a look. It was then that the three Blacktalons Wrathion had sent ahead to scout, and to find Sabellian and Anduin, appeared from the air off to the side of the worn pathway: a female worgen, a male orc, and a female blood elf.

Wrathion smiled at Varian, large and toothy on his pointed maw. He jumped from the harpoon gun and shifted into human form, landing lithely on his feet, dirt pluming up from underneath him. He straightened himself out.

“Report, if you would,” Wrathion ordered. The female blood elf stepped ahead and saluted; Left and the human Blacktalon flanked Wrathion again as she did so.

“Sabellian has taken over Sik’vess, your Majesty,” the blood elf began, her voice high and singsongy. “While we awaited your arrival, we scouted further and found that the entrance-way leads underneath the kypari tree. It is a small opening, a bottle-neck.” She glanced at the harpoon guns and the soldiers, then at Wrathion. “It prevents a quiet ambush. The harpoon guns will not work. The dragon will need to be drawn out into the open for their use.”

Murmuring began among the ranks. Wrathion bristled, but he saw Varian, out of the corner of his eye, put up a hand for silence, and the troops went quiet.

Wrathion hummed quietly to himself, thoughtful. “Very well.” He gestured his head behind him, and the three Blacktalons took their places behind Left, protecting the Black Prince’s back.

“Let’s get to the archway,” Varian ordered. A cold wind coming from the north blew against Wrathion’s face; he squint his eyes. “The priority is my son’s safety. We’ll bargain if we can’t get through.”

Wrathion laughed once, a quick, loud hah that made Varian look over at him immediately. “Sabellian won’t bargain. We can trick him out.”

Varian leveled him with a look. “We’ll bargain. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try another plan. I will not stoop to your level of playing tricks, dragon. This is the Alliance. We have honor here.”

Wrathion ground his teeth. Honor will only get you so far, he wanted to snap, but instead he chose something else to say – though he saw where Anduin got his naïve ideas from, now. “Of course, King Wrynn,” he murmured, and bowed his head in a mock-bow. “My apologies.”

The rumbling of the harpoon guns began again. They quickly made their way down the small slope that led to the tall archway. Wrathion walked with his Agents and stared at the amber infrastructure like it was some sort of poisonous bug that was about to leap at his face.

This was too delicate a situation, and everyone seemed to know it – including Varian, whose eyes were sharp on Sik’vess like Wrathion’s were. The Black Prince looked around. He knew what Sabellian would want in exchange for Anduin, and he would not let such an exchange happen; he was glad that he had five trained Blacktalons with him, including Left.

But even still, one wrong word on his part, or even on Varian’s part, could cost Anduin some pain, or even, if it came to it, his life. Wrathion shook his head. Perhaps when his son was injured the king would know that something as worthless as honor when dealing with an enemy like Sabellian was worthless. He’d be forced to listen to Wrathion – though the dragon wished he’d stop being as stubborn and just listen to him before Anduin did get hurt. Idiot. He was making this harder than it should have been.

They stopped a yard away from the archway. It went very quiet. The creaking of the harpoons was loud in the silence.

Wrathion took a breath and narrowed his eyes as he caught Sabellian’s scent coming from the opening, a heavy smell of fire and overturned earth. He tried to find Anduin’s scent, but couldn’t. Wrathion swallowed. That didn’t mean anything, he reassured himself. Sabellian’s scent was just overpowering it. Of course.

Varian dismounted. His armor clanked. The other soldiers did the same. The gryphons chortled quietly.

Then, from the archway, red-yellow fire shot forth with a roar. The ends plumed only feet away from the front lines; the gryphons shrieked and reared, and the soldiers tore their heads back to shield their eyes from the overwhelming heat that washed over Wrathion’s face without any harm to him.

The fire dissolved as quickly as it had appeared. Wrathion huffed and rubbed the side of his face. Show-off.

“Greetings,” came Sabellian’s voice from below, resonating slightly off of the amber

hallway. Wrathion leaned forward; the archway lead into a long series of stairs. “I suppose you’ve come for the boy. You took your sweet time in coming to find me.”

“Release my son,” Varian shouted down. “And I’ll think about not killing you.”

There was a long pause – then a loud snorting. “Ah. I seem to have the honor of speaking to the King of Stormwind. Did you enjoy my potions?”

“I’m not in the mood to play games. As I said, release my son.”

“The prince of Stormwind is my bargaining piece. No. I’ll be keeping him, for now.”

Wrathion growled. Sabellian has chosen his position too well. He was hidden from sight, away from the harpoons, and away from harm. Even though the Alliance and Wrathion had brought such artillery, it meant nothing; Sabellian had the upper hand.

And he had Anduin.

“What bargain are you looking for?” Varian asked. There was his own growl to his voice, and a scowl stretched across face.

“My brother, of course. The little one, the Black Prince Wrathion.”

Wrathion locked his jaw. “’The little one?’” He murmured to himself.

Varian glanced at him, then back at the archway. Smoke was drifting up from the stairs and passed the amber gateway.

“Wrathion isn’t here.”

The dragon glanced over at Varian, surprised, scrunching his eyebrows together.

“Of course he is. I can smell him. Hello, little prince.”

“If you think I’m going to just waltz down there and turn myself in, you’re badly mistaken,” Wrathion snapped loudly. Sabellian snorted.

“Your actions are too easy to predict, hatchling,” Sabellian responded. Wrathion huffed. “And what do you say, King Wrynn? This is no decision of Wrathion’s. Will it be the dragon or your son?”

Varian paused. He went still, one hand on the hilt of Shalamayne, the other at his side, hand curled into a fist.

“We can come to other terms,” Varian said, finally.

“Those are my only terms, you blasted king,” Sabellian said, the exasperation and annoyance clear in his voice. “Your son is unharmed now -”

“I can’t see Anduin. How do I know that?”

Sabellian’s grumble echoed against the archway. There was a long moment of silence. Wrathion’s fingers twitched as the minutes trudged by, slow as a mushan’s gait. What was going on down there? He glanced at Varian, who stood still, then back at the archway. This was taking too long. Perhaps he could send his Blacktalons inside to do this himself -

“I’m fine, Father,” Anduin called out suddenly, making Wrathion jump and his irises narrow into their smallest slits. “Don’t -”

“Yes, alright, that’s enough,” Sabellian interrupted. Anduin did not speak again. “Now. I would like to do this the easy way, Varian Wrynn. I am not my sister – thankfully – and I do not desire your death or the boy’s. I will release him quietly as long as my safety is assured and the Black Prince is mine.”

“I am not foolish enough to trust black dragons,” Varian growled.

“The color of my hide means little. Is a black dragon not standing beside you now? Albeit a small one, but the matter remains. Do not be a hypocrite. I loathe hypocrites.”

Sabellian’s voice was angry, and he spoke as if speaking to a child.

“If you are stupid enough to pass on my offer, I will do it another way. Give me the Black Prince or I’ll send your son back in pieces. I’ll start with his hands, first.”

Wrathion drew himself up. He wouldn’t –

“And if you doubt me, I would ask the Black Prince about what I was forced to do to his arm.”

Wrathion scowled. Forced! Hardly.

Varian took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment before opening them. His jaw was set, locked. Wrathion looked at him.

“Your plan of honor is working wonders, King Varian,” Wrathion commented vacantly.

Varian looked at him. His grip on Shalamayne tightened. Wrathion took a quick glance around. All of the Alliance were looking at him.

Suddenly Wrathion felt like the dragon down in the makeshift lair was the least of his worries.

“Now,” Wrathion started, quickly, his voice low so Sabellian couldn’t hear, “we can figure something else out -”

“And risk Anduin’s life?” Varian said; he looked to be struggling with himself. The night elf ranger started raising his rifle. With the small movement, a handful of the other soldiers went to grab their swords.

All at once the Blacktalons behind the Black Prince shot up into action. Left raised her crossbow with a growl at the king, daggers were drawn from their sheathes and swords plucked from belts, metal scraping.

Even in the outdoor space, the tension in the air became heavier, heavier even than when Sabellian had announced himself with his flame. The leaves of Sik’vess shuffled quietly in the cold wind.

Wrathion and Varian stared at one another, their shoulders taut.

“I want no harm to come to Anduin, either,” Wrathion said after a quiet moment, his voice as tense as his body was. He glanced at the soldiers – more had raised their weapons – before looking back at the king again. “But I will not be some prize to be handed over.”

Varian’s jaw worked back and forth as the king ground his teeth. It was silent for a long, full minute. Even the gryphons were quiet, as if they had picked up on their riders’ sudden shift of moods.

The king, finally, nodded slowly to himself, then nodded again, a quick, final thing. Wrathion relaxed, nearly sighing with relief.

“We’ll find something else,” Varian murmured. “Let’s talk. Quickly.”

—-

Anduin was standing in the center of Sik’vess, just beyond the pool of amber, watching Sabellian wait for his father’s response.

Sabellian and he had gotten so bored as the hours had dragged on wordlessly that they had started talking to one another again for the last hour – the status of Stormwind, what Blade’s Edge was like, and even of their mutual hate for Onyxia until Sabellian had stopped suddenly, turned around and blew fire up the stairs and Varian and Wrathion and a handful of Alliance had showed their presence.

The prince glanced up. The dragon was blocking the entry-way with his body, his wings held loose at his sides, his horned head tilted up at the stairway, but not enough, Anduin knew, where anyone outside could see even the ends of his snout. Smoke curled from his nostrils, and while his wings were casual, relaxed, the rest of Sabellian’s body was tense, ready to strike, his claws gripped onto the ground and the frills along his neck raised.

Anduin himself was on pins. He flexed one of his hands.

I’ll send your son back in pieces. I’ll start with his hands, first.

The prince took a steadying breath. He looked up at the entry-way again. Both his father and Wrathion were outside trying to get him out of here – and Sabellian wanted Wrathion in exchange.

Anduin would not allow that to happen, even if it cost him pain… though the prickling at his wrists belayed his nerves. But losing a hand, even both hands, was not the same as Wrathion losing his life.

Sabellian tilted his head back and forth and growled low as the silence stretched on. Anduin could practically hear his own heart beat. He could shield if Sabellian came after him, but he knew that wouldn’t last for long.

“Sabellian -”

“Do not speak,” Sabellian growled. His claws flexed and loosened. The heat was unbearable. Anduin rubbed at his face.

And the remaining Sha energy – it had to be Sha, Anduin concluded - was still there, uncomfortable, bitter -

Another minute passed, and still no word appeared from above.

“His time is up,” Sabellian murmured. With a quick cloud of smoke he shifted into human form. Blood stained against the brilliant red and orange, pinpointing all of his hidden injuries below the cloth. His sprained hand was held loose at his side as he walked to Anduin.

A smiting spell, sparking, flickered into Anduin’s hands. Sablemane growled. The dark skin underneath his eyes was strangely darker, and he moved with a serious, emotionless gait; for a brief moment, the prince wondered if the dead remnants of the Sha energies were beginning to bother him as they were Anduin, too.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sablemane said, gesturing to the spell. “You are only going to make this that much more difficult for me and for you. Can we not just do this quickly?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Anduin said, and took a step back as Sablemane began to approach again; his heel tapped against the border around the pool. He had nowhere to go. “You can turn me over without Wrathion, and I can promise you your safety. You can go home and forget this. I can speak to Wrathion -”

“Now you sound desperate.” He rolled his eyes. “Your hand, little prince. Give it here.”

The prince shook his head. Sablemane growled again.

Anduin shot off the smiting spell as Sablemane snatched forward. It hit him across the throat and the dragon snarled, teeth baring back to show their sharpened ends, and in that brief, distracted moment Anduin bolted forward, his right leg nearly giving out from underneath him in that first, terrible step – he wished he had his cane! -

Sablemane grabbed him by his tabard and hauled him back with a powerful snap, so hard the cloth tore down the side; it was nearly shorn in two. Anduin struggled and kicked out, but the dragon held him fast and grabbed his hands in one grip by his wrists.

“Let go of me!”

“Doubtful.”

Sablemane hauled him to one of the walls and smashed him against the amber. Anduin grimaced as the hard impact rattled against his spine and made his teeth clack and his vision blur, pain hot and sparking in his back and in his shoulders.

When he came to, Sablemane was looking at Anduin’s hands.

“What are you doing?” The prince croaked.

“Deciding which one,” the dragon replied as casually as if he were deciding what to eat.

Anduin struggled again. Sablemane did not look up, but he smacked the prince back into the wall again without so much as a movement. Anduin bit back a groan. His leg began to seize up, and the other healed injuries he’d sustained during the fall of the Divine Bell, the ones that hardly pained him, began to beat with a ghost pain until his whole body ached. He swallowed hard. No, he couldn’t give in to fear, he told himself. Or pain. He couldn’t yell out or scream, he couldn’t let Wrathion and Varian hear him yell. He couldn’t let Sabellian spur them into action and risk their lives because of Anduin’s pain.

“Don’t do this.” Anduin finally pleaded, his voice hoarse.

Sablemane looked at him. His orange eyes were sunken in, the shadows against his cheekbones dark. The prince looked at him earnestly.

They stared at one another. Anduin swallowed again. Much to his horror, his shoulders began to shake, and he couldn’t make them stop.

Sablemane saw. He hesitated.

Without a word the dragon suddenly let go of Anduin’s wrists and the blood rushed back into them. Anduin gave a small gasp, both in surprise and relief.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, unable to speak any louder.

“Don’t thank me yet,” the dragon said, and grabbed Anduin’s left sleeve and pulled it back to reveal the soft white skin beneath. Sablemane’s hand holding Anduin to the wall fell, but the dragon moved himself quickly, backing his shoulder into the prince’s to pin him back.

There was a gentle shiiiing. Sablemane lifted his hand from the inside of his robe and revealed an ugly dark green dagger, stained at the tip with blood.

Anduin recognized it. “That’s fel iron,” he said, blankly.

Sablemane raised a brow at him. “Your point?”

“I -” Anduin shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Maybe it will burn you at the touch, priest.”

Before Anduin could even try to snatch his arm away, Sablemane placed the sharpened tip of the dagger at the top of Anduin’s arm and slashed down, tearing through the soft flesh of his underarm in a deep arc.

Anduin jerked back at first. His eyes went wide as he stared at the gushing of blood coming out of his arm. Then the pain came – and Anduin screamed.

In his sudden haze of agony – his arm felt like it was on fire, crackling – he kicked out, even with his right, stiffened leg, but Sablemane didn’t move even when Anduin’s feet collided into his gut. The dragon only grunted and lifted the dagger.

Wait – Anduin was screaming. He couldn’t let himself yell out! With effort he forced his mouth, forced his throat, to close with a gurgle. Anduin scrunched his eyes closed and bit hit bottom lip hard as the pain continued to beat in his slashed arm. Hot blood dripped down into his palm, down his pants, onto his leather shoes. He could feel the fel energies burning at his opened flesh; it was a deep wound, a very terrible wound.

“Well done, little prince,” Sablemane said with a sigh, and the weight lifted from Anduin’s shoulder. The prince only slumped down into a clumsy sit, his eyes still closed. He cradled his bleeding left arm close to his chest. “That will be all your father will need, I’m sure.”

Anduin leaned his head on his bent knees and hiccuped. With the pain, he could do little else.

—-

Wrathion jumped when Anduin screamed.

He looked at the archway. His eyes were wide and his throat went dry.

No one did anything for half a heartbeat.

Varian cursed loudly. “I’ll go down there myself if I have to!”

Wrathion still hadn’t looked away from the archway.

I’ll start with his hands, first.

Sabellian wouldn’t -

He came back to the present with a flinch and shook himself out. He shook his head hard. Anger lit deep in the center of his chest.

“I’ll go,” he snapped, then lowered his voice in a quiet anger. Sabellian had crossed an invisible line. “I’ll trade myself.”

Left, to his side, looked alarmed. “My Prince -”

“I won’t actually trade myself, Left,” Wrathion interrupted. He drew his shoulders up and took a breath, composing himself. “I’ll make him think I am.”

Varian glanced over at him sharply. “That’s -”

“Dishonorable? Should I find myself caring more for some stupid fleeting idea about mortality than A– dealing with Sabellian?” Wrathion had nearly slipped and said Anduin.

“It’s a slimy move,” Varian murmured. “Regardless.”

“And that is why I am not part of your Alliance,” Wrathion replied. “You can stand aside and watch me save your son while you sit back and squirm about something as false as honor, King Wrynn.”

Varian sighed in aggravation. Good. Wrathion had hit a nerve.

“Man the harpoons. Wait for the trade. Shoot him – preferably without a killing shot - when its done and I will get Anduin and I out of the way, and we can walk out safely.”

Varian squinted at him. Wrathion looked back at him impatiently, trying not to think about the agony that had been in Anduin’s voice. He was about to tell his Blacktalons to man the damn guns themselves when Varian nodded and looked to the archway.

“We’ll give you the Black Prince,” he called down, voice gruff. “Don’t hurt my son any longer.”

Sabellian didn’t answer immediately.

“I thought that might sway you,” the elder dragon replied. He did not sound very happy. “Send the hatchling down.”

“No. He will meet you halfway.”

Sabellian snorted. “Yes, yes, alright. Halfway.”

Varian looked at Wrathion grimly and nodded.

“I can accompany you in the shadows, My Prince -”

“No, Left. I will do this alone.” He glance at her and smiled smugly. “Don’t you worry.”

The orc nodded, her movements stiff.

While he sounded outwardly confident, the Black Prince’s stomach began to twist as he walked, unaccompanied, to the archway. Behind him the Alliance were quietly beginning to turn the harpoons in the direction of Sik’vess’s opening.

This wasn’t the Kun-lai cave, Wrathion tried to tell himself. He was surrounded by allies. With his plan Sabellian would be defeated and he would have his just vengeance on his elder brother.

With a quick breath Wrathion went inside the hallway and started down the flight of stairs.

Sabellian, in human form, was already at the halfway point. In his grip was Anduin; Wrathion’s stomach soured. Even from the distance Wrathion could see the large gash down the prince’s arm, starting from his elbow and going down his wrist; blood stained the left half of his clothes where the wound had bled down.

Wrathion scowled and glared at Sablemane. The elder dragon simply looked back at him with lidded eyes, unmoving.

“The king chose the smart decision,” Sablemane said when Wrathion got into earshot. Anduin looked at Wrathion with wide eyes; the Black Prince tried not to look at him, in fear of giving away his falseness.

“It was not the king’s decision,” Wrathion retorted. He stopped when he was a yard away from Sablemane. “The only one who makes decisions for me is mysel -”

“Yes, alright, I understand you’re obsessed with your greatness. I don’t care.” Sablemane looked the Black Prince over. “Show me your hands, whelp.”

Wrathion sighed over-exaggeratedly and lifted his left hand up. Sablemane glanced him over again with a suspicious squint.

“I would show you the other, but -” Wrathion wiggled the ends of his right hand that stuck out from his worn cast “- I’m afraid I can’t.”

Sablemane snorted. He glanced behind Wrathion. Anduin shook his head at the Black Prince, silent; Wrathion looked back blankly. He couldn’t let Sablemane catch on.

“Honestly, can we get this over with? Your paranoia is exhausting,” Wrathion sighed. Sablemane glanced back at him with a small scowl and shoved Anduin forward a step. The prince stumbled before catching himself; Sablemane started dragging him the rest of the way, his steps slow, slower for Wrathion’s impatience.

Sablemane stopped when they were only two feet from each other. The elder dragon looked down at Wrathion with open disdain.

Wrathion looked him over and noted the bloodied stains against Sablemane’s robe. He smirked and rose his eyes up to the dragon’s. “I hope those hurt.”

“At least I did not cry when receiving them, little prince - unlike yourself with your own wounds.”

Wrathion twitched. “I did not cry -”

“No? I remember differently.”

Sablemane smiled at him without kindness. Wrathion glared.

“Can you two please - stop,” Anduin croaked. The Black Prince looked at him, glanced at Anduin’s own wound, and curled a lip in slight disgust and worry. It looked particularly nasty up close; the skin against the edges of the deep gash were dark grey, nearly blackened, and blood trickled in a steady stream from it to drip with a gentle plop, plip, plop on the stoned floor. Anduin looked paler than usual. Wrathion bit his lip; he had to hurry up, and the harpoon operators needed to hurry up.

“Ah. Yes. Apologies for harming your -” Sablemane paused, then shook his head, as if he didn’t quite care enough to think about it. “- Whatever he is. But a bit of shed blood builds character.”

“A 'bit'? His entire arm is bleeding.”

Sablemane shrugged. “Be thankful his arm is still there.”

They glared at each other again.

For once Wrathion struggled to find something else to say. Was this it? Were the harpoons in place? He couldn’t look behind his shoulder without giving away the plan; besides, Sablemane was solely focused on him, as Wrathion had hoped.

Sablemane sighed loudly. “I’ve had enough of this farce. Step forward. I’ll release the human when my hand grabs your neck. Do you understand these simple instructions, or shall I repeat them?”

Wrathion scoffed. “I understand fine, thank you.” He gestured with a flick of his hands to Sabellian’s loose, twisted hand. “You’ll only be able to grab one of us, however. Let Anduin go first, and then you may grab me.”

Sablemane stared at him without amusement. “Just come towards me, hatchling.”

Wrathion mumbled, and, carefully took a step forward, but moved his body just slightly to the side.

He was maybe half a foot away – Sablemane’s hand loosened on Anduin’s collar – when the dragon made a cursory glance over Wrathion’s shoulder.

The elder dragon’s eyes fixated.

A low, deep growl started at the back of his throat.

Sablemane had seen the harpoons.

Wrathion did the first thing he thought to do, and then everything seemed to explode.

The Black Prince bound forward and grabbed Anduin by the front of his tabard just as flames gushed up in a roar around Sablemane’s form. He pulled hard and Anduin came back with him, and Wrathion stumbled backwards, back smacking against the other side of the hallway; the flames around Sablemane shot up as he transformed into his dragon form, his back hunched, hardly fitting in the small cavern. Rock and amber fell from the ceiling. The ground shook.

Anduin gasped. The flames billowing off of Sabellian – Wrathion wrapped his good around around the prince’s chest and whirred around, changing places, his back to Sabellian and Anduin to the wall, shielding him from the inferno.

Sabellian roared again and in his anger, did not seem to see the two. Wrathion glanced back as the other dragon hurdled forward, forcing himself through the hallway, the ancient stairs crumbling beneath his weight and the ceiling falling in larger chunks. A loud SHRING pierced the air, and in a flash of blue and silver one of the harpoons shot towards the dragon, but missed; Sabellian screamed forth a billowing of flame and burst through the archway and into the opening.

More of the ceiling started to collapse. Wrathion moved himself from Anduin, grabbed the prince by the front of his tabard again, and started hauling him out, squinting his eyes. Anduin hurried after him; his limp was bad. A quick glance showed that part of Anduin’s back was burned.

“You can move faster than that!” Wrathion teased, though the tension in his voice gave away his small scaled panic. He ducked out of the way as a head-sized boulder of amber slammed right where he had been standing. Anduin glared at him, but the prince soon grimaced and forced himself to move faster.

They made it out of the hallway. Wrathion grinned as he felt the grass beneath his feet.

Anduin, meanwhile, collapsed to his knees. Wrathion went to kneel down but a scream tore his attention, and he turned to see the havoc Sabellian was wreaking across the Alliance and Shado-pan forces.

In the quick moment that Wrathion hauled Anduin from Sik’vess after Sabellian had blown through the archway, the elder dragon had torn a line of fire across the hill, encircling the group to prevent escape unless by gryphon – though that seemed unlikely, for Sabellian was gliding above, fire bursting from his mouth in aimed hits as he tried to destroy the harpoons. His flight was sloppy. The injured wing was obviously in pain.

The marksmen were, in the sudden frenzy, trying to shoot, but the arrows only clanged off of the dragon’s scales and the bullets only made Sabellian twitch as if they were nothing more than a bug’s bite.

“Aim the harpoons, damnit!” Varian yelled above the panic; he’d drawn out Shalamayne. Some of the Alliance bolted over and started taking control of the guns at their king’s command, while others began reeling in the first harpoon to fire and miss from the crumbling archway, the chains buzzing and crackling as they slid against the ground.

Sabellian arced down and a line of fire coursed at the harpoons – but a shaman shot his hands up and a gushing of powerful water burst from the ground, sizzling out the dragon’s flame before it was able to burst against the guns.

The dragon snarled and shot back up out of range again.

Wrathion watched, fixated. The ground rumbled beneath his feet with the activity. He’d never seen battle before and it was enthralling -

A groan from Anduin made him snap out of his sudden mesmerization. He glanced at the prince; Anduin hadn’t gotten up.

“My leg,” Anduin murmured, not looking up. “It won’t move.”

Wrathion glanced up at Sabellian – the dragon was coming in for another dive with a thundering roar – before looking at Anduin. He knelt slightly, pushing Anduin’s face up to look at him. He grinned sharply.

“I wouldn’t worry about moving, Prince Anduin,” Wrathion chirped. “There is nothing to worry about.”

A fireball smashed against the kypari tree. The bark flew above their heads, but the Black Prince ducked out of instinct anyway. There was a huge whoosh of air above as Sabellian shot across before arching back around and slamming towards the harpoons. The blue gun exploded with a flurry of wood and metal as Sabellian’s heavy claws burst against it.

“Well,” Wrathion murmured. “I may have spoken a bit too soon.”

Varian saw them. The Ghost Wolf’s eyes locked on Anduin, then on Wrathion, in the brief moment of calm as Sabellian shot into the sky again, one harpoon gun destroyed.

“Get my son out of here!”

Wrathion didn’t need to be told twice.

“Alright, dear prince -” He looped his good arm underneath Anduin’s arm, tried to lift him, and grunted with effort. “Ugh. At least try to move!”

Anduin managed to move his left leg and find purchase on the ground, though his right was as stiff as wood; it didn’t relax from its bend as Wrathion and Anduin got to their feet.

“This isn’t working,” Anduin panted. Sweat beaded down his forehead, probably from the fierce flames from the wall of fire that had only grown in size. The yells and cries of the Alliance were deafening, and mixed with Sabellian’s ear-splitting roars, Wrathion strained to hear the Alliance prince – though while all of the sounds should have confused him, they made the blood in his muscles feel like it was super-heating. His heart beat not with fear but with excitement.

“I can see that.” Another whoosh of air above – Wrathion pulled Anduin close and ducked just as Sabellian’s claws snatched at where their shoulders had just been.

Sabellian snarled. Wrathion looked up. A Blacktalon had reappeared on Sabellian’s back and was trying to find a weak point in the plates along his spine; in the confusion Wrathion couldn’t make out who it was. Sabellian twisted hard, and the Blacktalon fell, but disappeared before their body hit the ground.

Left appeared from the air at Anduin’s side. She put her arm around the prince’s waist and with the added leverage, Wrathion could carry him.

Wrathion nodded at Left, and they dragged Anduin to the side of the kypari tree, underneath one of the roots that coiled out from the ground only to dig back into the dirt like an emerging earthworm. The Prince and his bodyguard set Anduin in the tiny shadowed crevice, the root above him, shadowing his body from the air – from Sabellian – and let go.

Anduin slumped back. His arm was held close to his chest, and his right leg was still stiff. Wrathion smelled burnt skin. The Black Prince scowled, his anger at Sabellian vaulting up his chest.

“Left, teach the Alliance how to use harpoons,” Wrathion ordered. “If you have to shove them out of the way and do it yourself, do it.”

The orc nodded and disappeared, off to carry out her Prince’s demands.

“Wrathion,” Anduin mumbled. His blue eyes locked onto Wrathion’s red ones; his look was dazed, pained. “Sabellian -”

“Is being taken care of.” Wrathion smoothed back Anduin’s wildly sticking-up hair and smiled with his usual charm as he called out with his mind to the nearest Agent.

They appeared with a poof of smoke at the dragon’s side, panting hard, blood splayed across their face. It was the human.

“Be a dear and guard the prince,” Wrathion said. “If he is harmed, do not show your face to me again.”

Without waiting for a reply from either the Agent or Anduin, Wrathion shifted into his whelp form and flew out to the chaos at the harpoon guns.

The remains of the blue harpoon gun that Sabellian had destroyed lay scattered across the ground. Some of the Alliance had mounted their gryphons, now unhooked from the harnesses tying them to the machines, and were awaiting orders to attack Sabellian from the sky; the dragon was circling, his horned head tilted down. Wrathion noted that the dragon’s right, injured wing hardly beat anymore, only once or twice to keep him aloft; the whelp smirked wide. Excellent.

He landed by the black harpoon gun and shifted back into human form. Left was yelling at the dwarf who manned the gun, making stiff, jerking gestures to the dwarf, to the gun, then to Sabellian up above. The red harpoon gun was manned by a more capable-looking draenei warrior. The chains buzzed in their loops behind the harpoons.

“That wing of his won’t last long,” Varian said. The king was to the side of Wrathion. He glanced at the Black Prince. “My son?”

“Protected.”

The king nodded and glanced back up at Sabellian; the dragon still only circled.

Sabellian’s head turned. Even from the high distance Wrathion could see that the orange eyes were locked on him.

The Black Prince looked away and around. The fires were roaring high in their circle. Everyone was panting, sweating in the inferno – save for Wrathion, of course, who stood unaffected.

He, strangely, saw no bodies.

“Get the gryphons to guide him closer,” Wrathion said. His heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest. He wanted the harpoons in Sabellian’s flesh now! “A game and cat and mouse.”

Sabellian dove suddenly and lava, not fire, spat from his mouth before he slammed back up again out of the harpoon’s aiming distance; he’d seemed to have experience with harpoons, judging by how easily he knew how high to go to avoid them.

The lava splashed in front of the machines. The ground bubbled. The harpoon guns lurched forward as a pit of living rock began to yawn open when the ground liquified.

Varian was the first to react. He grabbed onto the back of the black harpoon gun and began trying to haul it back; the other Alliance was quick to help, and the harpoon groaned and its bars cracked at the sides with the shifts in motion.

The crisis was averted when both harpoons were pulled back by the quick action. Ahead, Sabellian snarled. Wrathion wanted to laugh at his frustration, but resigned himself to focus.

“The gryphons?” Wrathion prodded.

Varian scowled. He gestured to the Alliance who had mounted. “Lead the dragon close!”

“Fire when he is on target, if you would,” Wrathion said to the draenei after leaning over to speak to him personally. The draenei only nodded.

The gryphons launched into the air, three in total. Sabellian saw them and snorted.

Wrathion twitched. The gryphons got close to the dragon, but Sabellian only swatted at them and did not follow when they tried to urge him forward, closer to the harpoons. It wasn’t working – either Sabellian was too smart or his wing was too weak to move him unless he really needed to.

The harpoons were aimed and ready, however.

“He’s going to try and get me some time!” Wrathion snapped.

Varian looked at him with a gleam in his eye. Wrathion paused.

“Now wait a minute -”

Varian grabbed him and hauled him forward, stepping over the holes of bubbling earth and pulling him ahead of the line, ahead of the harpoons, and head of the soldiers, right at the edge of the wall of fire.

Wrathion struggled and flailed. “This is ridiculous! You stupid king! Let go of me! Let go of me right now!”

Varian whistled high and harsh. Before Wrathion had the sense to call out to Left, who in the confusion was trying to take control of the black harpoon gun from the dwarf, one of the gryphons dove, grabbed Wrathion by his shoulders, and bolted back up into the air.

Wrathion yelped and flailed out even more violently as the ground went distant below him; he felt like he’d left his stomach behind.

“Let me down this instant, you pathetic excuse for a -!”

The gryphon lurched to the side. Wrathion stopped and went very still. His good hand quickly reached up and snatched onto the gryphon’s scaly-like arms as they turned to face Sabellian, who was hovering in the air.

Sabellian saw him.

“An air hand-over,” the elder dragon panted. “How charming.”

The gryphon started backing up. Wrathion bit hit lip. Varian had just handed him over for bait!

Sabellian growled. He looked at the gryphon, then at Wrathion, hungrily.

Wrathion wasn’t sure if he was elated or terrified when Sabellian took the bait and surged forward, apparently deciding trying to grab Wrathion was worth the risk of the harpoons.

The gryphon tore back through the sky, whipping Wrathion around with it. He flinched and held on tight with his hand, so tight he could feel the gryphon’s pulse, though it mattered little; the beast’s sharp claws were gripped hard on his shoulders as they rushed through the air. Wrathion curled his knees closer to his body rather than have his legs flailing outwards, an easy target for Sabellian to grab.

Sabellian snarled behind them. Wrathion grimaced – the harpoons were just in front of them, but Sabellian was too close -

The gryphon shrieked and so did its rider as a great force slammed against the beast’s hindquarters. Wrathion yelled out in alarm as they started tumbling. Sabellian growled; in a brief, confused second while his vision blurred back and forth Wrathion saw that one of the elder dragon’s claws had grabbed onto the gryphon and was hauling it back.

A blur of yellow and brown tackled into the side of Sabellian’s neck. The dragon snarled, jerking his neck back in surprise, as one of the other gryphons clawed at the soft underflesh of his neck while its rider, the dwarf who had spoken to Wrathion earlier, shot an arrow into part of Sabellian’s skin that was exposed from Alexstrasza shearing off of the scales there before.

Sabellian let go of the gryphon holding Wrathion with a frustrated growl as the arrow pierced his skin – but the gryphon was injured and started falling, the air and wind screaming against Wrathion’s face.

Before they impacted Wrathion managed to shift into whelp form and wiggle out from the gryphon’s claws - though he landed in a confused tumble, dirt and grass sticking to his face. He groaned; his body shook with the impact.

Wrathion forced himself to look up. He blew the grass from his eyes.

Two of the gryphons were now wailing into Sabellian, picking off his scales like sparrows with a raven’s feathers. The elder dragon snarled – not in pain, but in annoyance – and set fire to one of the beast’s wings. The mount went tumbling. The gryphon who had fallen first was off to the side, struggling to get to its feet.

Wrathion panted heavily. He looked at the harpoons, then at Sabellian – the dragon was close enough. His blood felt like it was aflame.

“Fire!” He yelled high above the sound of snarls and yells and the firing of guns. “Bring him down!”

Wrathion shifted back into human form and grabbed onto the side of the red harpoon gun. Sabellian had heard him. The elder dragon whacked away with a swipe of his paw the last gryphon tormenting him and opened his wings to flurry away -

A great groaning and cracking of wood and metal sounded from the red harpoon as the draenei manning it followed his orders.

With a thoom the harpoon was launched, the chains trailing behind it -

Sabellian was too slow with the injured wing; the harpoon pierced the dragon’s shoulder with a fleshy thunk.

The dragon roared out in agony so loud that the ground beneath Wrathion’s feet felt like it was shaking.

Sabellian lurched forward. His wings went askew in mid-air. Wrathion laughed out loud and watched; he leaned forward, his claws digging holes into the wood of the harpoon gun’s side -

The chains trailing behind the harpoon sparked and spurred into action. As Sabellian flailed, trying not to fall and trying to pull the harpoon out at the same time, the titan’s technology lifted up in a snake-like coil and wrapped, as if it had a mind of its own, around the dragon’s front legs, binding them together. There was a tremendous crackling, a mini thunder strike, and electricity burst up the elder dragon’s chest.

Sabellian jerked his head back and roared. Wrathion grinned savagely.

“Fire the second one!”

Left shoved the fumbling dwarf out of the way, took a hold of the controls, aimed, and fired the red harpoon.

Sabellian couldn’t dodge. The harpoon slammed deep into his thigh, and the chains shot up and curled around his wings and back legs in mere seconds.

The dragon fell and smashed into the ground with a boom that nearly took Wrathion’s feet out from underneath him.

Dirt and grass plumed up from where he landed. Wrathion stared, unhooking his claws from the harpoon. From beyond the dying wall of fire came a pained snarl.

But Sabellian did not fly back up.

Wrathion grinned widely and panted hard.

In that quick, chaotic moment his plan had worked.

A small cheer went up amongst the Alliance, but Wrathion hardly heard them. He jumped over the wall of flame, Left trailing behind him, and went to see his handiwork.

Sabellian was sprawled in an upturned ditch made from his own impact. He was struggling to get back up, but with each movement the chains buzzed and sent a wave of electricity. The dragon snarled again and shook his head out, dirt and grass flying, struggling against the pain and his bonds. The harpoons stuck out from his sides; they were so deep and the aim so accurate that hardly any blood seeped down the punctures.

Of course that would change when Wrathion would have them removed, he thought happily.

“Oh, don’t move!” Wrathion chirped. “I wouldn’t want you to injure yourself further.”

Sabellian looked at him. He growled and shifted again, chains rattling, but flinched when the electricity coursed over him again.

“Insolent little child,” Sabellian snarled, smoke snorting from his nostrils. His side heaved heavily in deep panting.

Wrathion smiled and placed a hand around the small horn at the top of Sabellian’s snout.

“Actually,” Wrathion said with mock thoughtfulness. “Move. Quite a lot. I hope it hurts,” Wrathion added brightly. He moved his hand from the horn and pat the end of Sabellian’s snout. The elder dragon snarled and snapped his teeth forward and Wrathion tore his hand back.

“That’s enough, Wrathion.” The Black Prince glanced back, annoyed at being interrupted during his gloating. Varian came up to his side and looked Sabellian over. The elder dragon growled at him, though Wrathion noted with great enjoyment that Sabellian wasn’t trying to move anymore.

Varian looked back at Sabellian. His expression was unreadable. The other Blacktalons reappeared next to Wrathion’s right side behind Left, who stood very still but eyed Sabellian with obvious anger. The smell of smoke and burnt earth was overwhelming.

“Yes, well. You have your son and I have my brother. A good day’s work.”

Varian made a noncommittal mm. He did not look away from Sabellian for a long moment; the elder dragon’s breathing was heavy and labored, and he did not try to speak. His eyes were lidded.

A frustrated mumbling caught Wrathion’s attention. He glanced behind Varian and saw Anduin – how on earth had he stood up?- limping towards them with a piece of wood he’d apparently ripped off from the kypari tree as a makeshift cane.

Wrathion sighed. Stubborn prince. He motioned his head to Anduin and one of his Blacktalons went to help, but Anduin shook his head at the blood elf.

Varian turned, saw his son, and rushed forward with a speed that did not seem to fit his size. He put his hands on the blond’s shoulders, stared him over, then brought him in a quick, fierce embrace before letting go after Anduin groaned.

“Your arm.” The king gently took his son’s gashed forearm and looked it over. He scowled. “Our shaman will heal you.” He glanced at the blood elf Blacktalon suspiciously. “I can trust you to take my son back to -”

“No, it’s alright, Father,” Anduin mumbled. His voice was muddled as if he had been drinking. He must have lost a lot of blood. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Go with Wrathion’s Agent.”

Wrathion watched awkwardly, unsure what to do with himself. Sabellian laughed, though it was humorless and weak.

“Does that confuse you, little prince?” The dragon murmured. “Yes, I suppose it does. You wouldn’t know a father’s care for their children.”

Wrathion glared at him.

“Wait.” Wrathion glanced at Anduin again; the prince was trying to put up his injured arm as if to keep his father at a distance, but the whole limb shook. “I just – I just need to -” He glanced at Sabellian, took in the chains, then glanced at Wrathion. “What are you doing?”

“Finishing this, Prince Anduin,” Wrathion replied smoothly. “I shall take him elsewhere, of course.”

“But -”

“Alright, son. You need to get healed. Now.”

The blood elf, on queue, took a hold of Anduin’s shoulders. The prince resisted for a moment, locked Wrathion with a strange, undecipherable look that went back to Sabellian before he gave in and allowed the Agent to lead him back to the group.

Varian sighed, ran a hand over his face, and looked at Wrathion.

“I won’t pretend to know what this is about,” he started, nodding his head to Sabellian, whose eyes had closed, “But I will thank you for helping to save my son.”

Wrathion went to smile smugly, but thought better of it. He nodded at Varian.

“I hope you’ll remember the favor, King Varian,” Wrathion said.

The king huffed, then turned to follow after his son.

Wrathion looked at Sabellian. He looked at the harpoons, the chains, the sheer way that the dragon, thousands of years older than him, had been brought down in a painful net by his own genius, he thought to himself.

He was almost in disbelief. It had happened so quickly! He placed his hand against the small horn again, but this time Sabellian didn’t move or snarl.

Wrathion smiled widely. Now to force the dragon into human form, and he could continue this… elsewhere.

This had gone too well.


	14. Chapter 14

“What do you wish for us to do, my Prince?”

Wrathion stood in front of Sabellian, one hand loosely wrapped around the larger of the dragon’s double-horns. Varian had only just left –… leaving the Black Prince and his Agents to his machinations.

Some of the Alliance stood close, as well, watching curiously now that the line of fire separating them from the dragon had died down. Wrathion ignored them.

His heart still beat hard with the crazed enthrallment of the quick but brutal struggle; a wolfish, near-feral grin stretched across his face. The dragon’s red eyes were wide.

The Black Prince moved his eyes over the still form of the black dragon. Sabellian’s wings were suckered close to his body and his legs were scrunched up close to his chest and belly, awkwardly positioned, thanks to the heavy, buzzing chains.

Wrathion hesitated. His smile flickered before lighting back up again.

“Remove the excess chains,” he ordered. “Moving him will be a trite more difficult if he is this size. I doubt he can lug about the chains in human form.” Wrathion gently shook Sabellian’s horn to move the dragon’s head back and forth – or at least tried to. It was too heavy. That annoyed him, but the glowing high from his victory was quick to override the irritation. “Or can you?” He teased with a coo.

Sabellian growled, smoke curling from his quivering nostrils, but did not speak. His sides heaved in deep breaths with great effort.

Left grunted. “We risk letting him loose if we lose too much of the chains.”

“Then I expect you to be careful.” Wrathion took his hand from the dragon’s horn and flashed the orc a toothy grin, all of his sharp, white teeth bright against his face, before it fell into a lazy smirk.

The orc only nodded.

Wrathion felt as if he could fly a mile. Or three. Or ten. Or a hundred. He felt like he could out-fly Varian’s vicious little mount by huge lengths. He flexed his left hand, his claws digging against his palm. Oh, he had missed feeling this! And to think it had been the fall of Sabellian, the very enemy to have robbed him of his confidence before -… the payback was delicious, and the victory even more-so.

It felt wonderful to be the best again.

Left, who stood to Wrathion’s side, beckoned over the other Blacktalons with a quick, snapping motion of her hand. The Black Prince ignored them. He only looked at Sabellian.

“So! What do ye’ plan to do with this biggun?”

Wrathion looked over, but did not turn his head. The dwarf who had spoken to him on the way to Sik’vess stood close by, but was keeping herself at a safe distance from Sabellian’s head. Soot was scattered across her face, hiding her freckles.

The Black Prince turned his eyes back to Sabellian. Left was still talking to the Blacktalons up ahead; he could deal with ushering the curious Alliance away himself, annoying as it was.

Well, no matter. He was happy to explain, anyway – especially since he could do it right in front of Sabellian. He could rub his victory even deeper into the dragon’s face.

“I am glad for Prince Anduin’s safety,” Wrathion started. “But now I have to deal with this worrisome pest. I would not want him to bring any more harm to your Alliance.”

Sabellian snorted. In a raspy, strained voice, he mumbled: “Bring harm to you, you mean, you impudent little -”

“Regrettably that means forcing him to move from here,” Wrathion interrupted with a raised voice, drowning out Sabellian. “And more work on my part. But! I do what I must for the greater good, as small a chore as this one might be.”

The dwarf whistled a low, impressed tone. Wrathion’s smirk widened.

“Gee. I woulda’ though the harpoons woulda’ killed ‘im fer sure.” The young dwarf looked at Sabellian. “Poor bugger. Ain’t you a black dragon too, though?”

“What? Yes. I am.” Wrathion looked at her with a scoff, suddenly defensive. “What does that have to do with anything?”

The dwarf smiled quickly. “Oh. Nothin’, really. Prince Anduin has told me about you! I was jus’ wondering, ‘s all.”

Wrathion raised a brow at her. “Prince Anduin has… spoken to you about me?” He squinted. “Who are you, exactly?”

“Oh! I’m Fennie Hornswaggle.” She smiled brightly. “Anywho, we were jus’ wondering about this whole affair.”

“’We.’”

“Uh huh.” She nodded her head to the other Alliance who were lingering, watching Sabellian with curious looks that ranged from wide grins like Wrathion’s victorious one all the way to pitied frowns. “Since King Varian jus’ kinda left you alone with ‘im.” She leaned in close as if sharing a secret. “With how angry the King was, I coulda’ sworn he was gonna’ kill the beastie himself. Which is why we’re all confused, y’see.”

“Ugh,” Sabellian grumbled. “I am not a ‘beastie,’ little girl. I can speak.”

Fennie looked taken aback. “Oh! Uhm. My apologies, uh – sir.”

Sabellian’s eye opened and fixated on Fennie; his look was glossy. “I will tell you now that the Black Prince is an excellent but amusing liar. Shall I tell you the real story, or are you stupid enough to simply believe him? I will guess the latter.”

Wrathion scowled. He tapped his foot against the end of Sabellian’s snout, annoyed at the elder dragon’s ability to speak, though each of his brother’s words were pained and forced. Sabellian looked at him, scowled, but surprisingly closed his eye again and went quiet, succumbing to the pains of his wounds and the chains.

“What’s he mean by that?” One of the other mortals piped up, a younger human with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Wrathion scowled; his annoyance grew. He was starting to regret the Alliance’s curiosity. Didn’t they have something else better to do? “You know, I’ve heard some rumors -…”

Wrathion saw Left look at him; she stopped speaking to the Blacktalons. Her hand went to her crossbow, but he subtly waved her off. He could deal with this nuisance himself.

“I have taken it upon myself to kill my corrupted brothers and sisters for Azeroth’s good,” Wrathion drawled; he was just loud enough for the rest of the Alliance to hear. Hopefully this would sate their curiosity. “Sabellian is no different. He’s as monstrous as the rest of them were. Very unfortunate.”

“You sound like an automaton,” Sabellian mumbled. His eye remained closed. “Always repeating the same broken words.”

Wrathion glared at him. He was about to throw something at the chains to make them buzz against Sabellian when Fennie spoke again.

“Huh.” She bit her bottom lip and looked at elder dragon. “I mean, call me crazy, bu’ he doesn’t seem loony ta me.” The dwarf clasped her hands behind her back. “Do ye’ hear voices, beasti – uhm – dragon?” She asked Sabellian.

Wrathion growled. “Don’t you have something else better to do?” He quipped. He made a quick, shooing motion with his hand. “I am -” He struggled to find an appropriate word that did not sound insulting, like ‘annoyed with your presence’ or ‘considering to ask Left to haul you lot away’. “ - Very busy.”

Fennie put up her hands defensively. “Ah! Sorry. Didn’t mean no disrespect.” She smiled at him. “Well, I’m gonna check on the Prince. Good luck!”

Wrathion resisted the urge to roll his eyes as Fennie strolled off and away towards the camp behind them. Some of the other Alliance, to his dismay, continued to stay, while others followed the dwarf, apparently satisfied with Wrathion’s earlier answer.

He ignored them. ‘Doesn’t seem loony.’ Hah. Hilarious. What did the dwarf expect? Sabellian to start spurting senseless nonsense like Deathwing’s cultists? Onyxia herself had been so clever as to hide her insanity that she had infiltrated into Stormwind’s highest authority. He scoffed. Ignorant mortals.

At least they were not asking him anymore questions, though.

He sighed loudly and disengaged himself from his rooted spot; Wrathion rounded to the other side of the elder dragon’s face. Sabellian’s closed eye opened again and fixed on him with a lidded, dull stare.

“I suppose you have some regrets,” Wrathion said, but low enough so only Sabellian could hear. His smirk was plastered on his face. “Making an enemy of me was a very bad choice.”

Sabellian snorted. “I have little regret.” His chest heaved up and down once, and his eye scrunched back closed as he exhaled. “As little as I had a choice to ‘make’ an enemy of you, you moronic hatchling.” His eye opened again to glare weakly at the Prince. Sabellian moved one of his claws forward – the chains buzzed and crackled and the dragon hissed.

Wrathion looked Sabellian over again. Tied up, with all of his limbs tucked in, his size looked a bit lesser – though the dragon’s head alone was bigger than Wrathion was tall.

The Black Prince ran his tongue over one of his canines. “Mm.” He glanced behind his shoulder. Behind him, where Anduin had been hauled off by the blood elf Agent with Varian quick to follow, the Alliance milled about in the flat area outside the crumbled archway of Sik’vess. Four of the soldiers were putting up a cloth tent – perhaps a makeshift infirmary. To Wrathion’s disappointment, he could not pick out the blond prince in the crowd.

“You should not have harmed Anduin Wrynn, either,” Wrathion added. He looked back at Sabellian. “That was a poor choice.”

“Dear me. How shall I apologize?”

“Oh! There’s absolutely no need.” Wrathion’s smirk twisted up into a smile. “The moment my champions finish the job I set out to accomplish two years ago by killing the rest of your brood I will have all the apology I ever asked for.” He sighed. “My Agents did not do as well as I had hoped they would. But it’s remarkable how quickly a mistake can be fixed.” Wrathion glanced over the black dragon. A mistake just like the huge one in front of him – a mistake he had fixed after all of the misfortune that had befallen him for it.

Sabellian’s eye narrowed on him.

“You sent Agents to Blade’s Edge?” Sabellian growled.

“So I did. But, as I said, I am sending more capable champions once I have dealt with you.” He smiled. “It seems you may have made another unfortunate choice in leaving your children unattended,” Wrathion concluded. “Now. Tell me again how much little regret you have!”

Sabellian’s maw curled into a snarl.

His large head slammed forward. The chains cracked and rattled as the dragon strained to snap at Wrathion, growls and snarls reverberating from his throat.

The Black Prince only took a step back and watched Sabellian struggle. Smoke popped from the chains; Wrathion’s bangs began to awkwardly stick up from being so close to the static, but he did not move away.

But Wrathion did not look on with any sort of smugness. His smile twisted down into a bewildered frown and his brows bunched together the longer the other dragon resisted and struggled.

He’d said the comment to annoy the dragon, surely.

Wrathion had not expected such a violent, prolonged reaction. It bothered Sabellian that terribly? How could a corrupted monster -?

Sabellian’s head finally collapsed back down in an exhausted heap. The chains rattled back against his scales, inactive. The sharp smell of ozone drifted heavily from the Titan’s technology. A low groan rumbled from the dragon’s chest.

A growl came off from Wrathion’s side.

“Are you alright?” Left prodded; her crossbow was hoisted and aimed at the Sabellian’s now-closed eye.

Wrathion continued to stare at Sabellian with confusion.

“My Prince?”

Wrathion jumped from his stupor. He saw Left, blinked hard, and motioned her crossbow away with an impatient flick of his hand.

“Yes. I’m fine. Excellent.”

Left eyed him with suspicion, though her crossbow slowly lowered. She looked at Sabellian then back at Wrathion and squinted.

Wrathion glanced at her, annoyed with her look. What was she staring at? “The chains, if you would, Left. Go do…” He lifted his hand and made a swaying gesture as if searching for a more articulate word. “… Them. Take care of them. And – yes. You know.” Wrathion cleared his throat and smoothed down his bangs, which continued to stick up from the lingering static. “I would like to move away from here as soon as possible.”

The orc raised a brow at him and slipped her crossbow against her back again. “As you order,” she said -… though he did not miss her lingering look as she made her way to Sabellian’s side to the Blacktalons who awaited her next orders.

Wrathion watched them for a moment, unperturbed at his separation from them. Their conversation was boring and not one he wanted to hear; the talk of mechanics on how to deal with the chains was one he could easily miss.

… Though perhaps the talk could help distract him from the unease that continued to flicker in his chest at Sabellian’s violent, fervent reaction.

Wrathion glanced at the dragon. Sabellian was still. The smell of electricity, of ozone, was nearly gone in the early afternoon’s chilly wind.

The sudden quiet struck him, then. The leaves about shifted and whispered above and the Alliance, yards away, tromped with their metal clanking and the gryphons calling to each other. Each of Sabellian’s heavy, labored breaths rattled loud before him.

And, slowly, as he stood there staring, the high of battle and victory sloughed from his shoulders and he stared at Sabellian with a strange hollowness, as if he wasn’t sure what had just occurred.

Wrathion’s brows sloped, and he frowned widely, one of his teeth sticking out to bite against his bottom lip.

He scowled. He cleared his throat, brushed off invisible dust from his tabard, and fluffed back his bangs in an attempt to tuck them underneath his turban but failing to. But try as he might he could not get the vacant feeling dislodged, nor the unease that pulled with tiny strings at his chest.

“Ugh.” He pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and pointed finger and then swept his hand over his face. This didn’t feel very good anymore. What had just happened?

From the corner of his eye he saw the last remaining Alliance walk away. Some of their shoulders were hunched, as if they were perturbed. Too worried with his own problems, Wrathion ignored them again.

The Black Prince shook his head and dropped his hand. A large clanking caught his attention. His eyes snapped up; his Blacktalons were flanking Sabellian now, positioned and ready. In their hands they held strips of leather that had protected the gryphons; one of them must have gone back to the Alliance camp to grab the supplies.

Wrathion soon became fixated on their work as they carefully began to strip off the large chains, working together to heave off the heavy weight.

His unease was quickly forgotten.

—-

An hour had passed. The business with the chains was proving more difficult than Wrathion had hoped.

The Blacktalons had managed to pull off a large chunk of the chains from Sabellian’s legs; they had left just enough to bind him. Strangely enough, Sabellian had not tried to thrash his legs about like the Black Prince would have thought he would. In fact, the elder dragon hadn’t moved at all. It would have pleased Wrathion under normal circumstances, but knowing him, Sabellian was no doubt waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

Just like he did when attacking the Tavern. Wrathion huffed and glanced down at the dragon’s still face; the Black Prince had not moved from his standing place in the hour that his Agents had been working.

…Or Sabellian was simply not moving because his fervent, emotional reaction had sapped out all of his remaining energy.

Wrathion frowned at that. Accompanying it was the same sour unease in his stomach he’d had before. He still could not explain the way Sabellian had reacted.

He didn’t want to think about it. Wrathion sighed and shook himself out; he forced himself to think of other things.

Overall, he was bored.

Wrathion glanced behind his shoulder. Perhaps he could visit Prince Anduin; the wound he’d sustained had looked particularly vicious.

And besides, it would be a good way to distract himself.

“Left!” He called out. The orc looked up. She was overseeing, with her arms crossed, the two Blacktalons who were currently struggling with unlatching the deadly chains from Sabellian’s front paws; the leather slabs looked awkwardly handled in their hands. “I am going to pay Prince Anduin a visit. I trust you can handle this situation.”

The orc nodded. “Yes, your Majesty. Do you want guards to accompany you?”

Wrathion shook his head. “No, no. I’ll be just fine.” He flashed her a toothless, wide smile. “Don’t fret.”

“You said you were fine when you went on that walk alone weeks ago, my Prince,” the orc chided with a huff. “And you were assaulted by two nether-drakes.”

“- That I killed, Left. Surely I can survive a walk into an Alliance camp!”

Left squinted at him. Finally, she mumbled something to herself and nodded.

Pleased, Wrathion took a last look at Sabellian, turned on his heel, and made his way to Sik’vess.

—-

The Alliance camp was bare, hurriedly erected, and quiet.

The two cream-colored tents he’d seen were propped up in the center, their loose tops flapping in the colder northern wind. The smell of cooking meat, sizzling over a small fire in front of the resting gryphons – whose sleep was well deserved – made Wrathion’s mouth water as he strode into the sparse crowd.

They had set up in front of Sik’vess, right outside the archway. Wrathion cast a cursory glance over to his right and took in the crumbling mantid infrastructure; huge chunks of dimly-glowing amber lay in piles among shredded and burnt bark, and half of the archway was caved in.

The fires from Sabellian’s wrath had gone out, however - only smoke now drifted from where the inferno had been along the scorched grass. The ground was sunken in where the lava had eaten at it; the harpoons had been pulled back farther away from the pit. Two Alliance milled about the abandoned machines-of-war. They were busy reattaching the small chains to the guns, readying them for their return back to the Shado-pan, and so the mortals did not see him.

The scene reminded Wrathion of the Tavern after Sabellian had gotten through with it; he’d only seen the aftermath after the sha had been purged from him, having gone unconscious while the fires had still roared along the mountain.

Wrathion frowned and shook his head, ridding himself of the memory. He didn’t need to think of more bad thoughts that would only curdle his mood like Sabellian’s reaction had.

The Black Prince started making his way over to the tents, but hesitated as he passed by the fire where the meat was cooking. The Alliance who had not been injured in the brief scuffle and were not put in charge of handling the gryphons and the harpoons were eating, sprawled out on the grass.

The dragon’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since his huge meal at Lion’s Landing.

Swiping some of the meat, which looked to be venison, from the mortals with a quick smile and a cooing word might be a good idea. He walked a bit closer, but did not altogether make a beeline for the fire.

One of the mortals saw him – the gnome who had initially pointed out the Forsaken’s proto-drake on the Wall. Her big brown eyes narrowed and she bent her head, breaking eye contact with him.

The other mortals caught the motion of her reaction and looked up. When they saw him, some of them scowled and looked back down at their food. A human outright glared at him. A dwarf and another human squinted at him, then leaned over to one another and mumbled something too low for Wrathion to hear. He recognized the human and the dwarf; they’d been part of the group who had lingered after Sabellian’s fall.

Wrathion blinked; a bewildered frown tugged down at his lips. The human kept glaring. The Black Prince got the message.

Too confused to even be insulted he turned his walk back on its original direction and passed by.

What was that about?

He was dimly aware that they started to mumble about him behind his back, but Wrathion couldn’t be bothered to turn around and snap at them for it, and he did not have any guards with him to do it for him. He scratched at his throat.

Maybe something was on his face? Blood, maybe? Wrathion rubbed at his nose and cheeks then pulled his hand back, but there was no hint of red smeared against his palm. Frowning deeper, he readjusted his turban and looked down at his outfit. But everything was in place. Had he done something wrong?

He rolled his eyes. Probably not. Mortals were often too sensitive.

Two mortals, a night elf and dwarf, were up ahead, leading a gryphon to the other sleeping mounts. The beast’s wing was heavily bandaged; it must have been the one Sabellian had caught on fire.

They were about to cross paths with the Black Prince when the night elf saw him and stopped suddenly. The dwarf looked confused, saw him, then stopped, too. Wrathion would have usually been entertained to have people stop for him so that he could walk first, but the wary look the elf was giving him only made Wrathion’s unease unfurl again.

The dragon squinted at the elf as he passed. The elf only looked back.

Wrathion walked by. His frown deepened.

What was going on? What was with the looks, the glares, the general wariness in the first ten minutes he’d entered the small Alliance encampment?

Confused, he quickly tried to think of an answer as he approached the smaller of the cloth tents. Some of the Alliance had been there with Sabellian. He’d even explained to Fennie what the situation was. Had he said something they didn’t like? He went over the words he’d said, but nothing stuck out to him. They could not be upset with him for wanting to kill something that would no doubt wish harm upon them – and that had harmed their prince.

“I dunno. I think the whole situation is a bit odd.”

Wrathion slowed his walk to a stop. The voice was a male’s, and spoke in a low tone; it came from behind the tent to the dragon’s right, hidden from sight.

“What makes you think so?”

This was a female’s voice, gruff.

Interest piqued, Wrathion drew back from Anduin’s tent. He looked to his sides; no one was looking at him. With a quick fluff of smoke he shifted into whelp form and hopped into the air, making a quick glide to the opposite tent.

The whelp landed on the cloth tent’s top – and immediately regretted it as he tried to crawl forward and his claws popped and caught on the thick fabric. He growled and smacked his front paws up; they tore from the tent and, annoyed, he tried to crouch forward again -… only for his back leg’s talons to catch onto the cloth.

He lurched forward, fell on his snout and made an undignified, high-pitched chirp. His legs flailed and he managed to unlatch himself from the tent for the second time.

So much for being stealthy about it. Wrathion grumbled, tucked his claws up and slid forward on his belly to the tip-top of the tent. He hesitated for a moment, worried the others he had detected on the other side might have heard his small-scale commotion, before he peeked his head over the side.

On the other side of the tent were four Alliance: a female worgen, a male human, a male night elf, and none other than Fennie, who leaned against the back of Sik’vess, shining a gryphon’s halter with an oily rag.

They looked undisturbed by his previous noise. The human, who looked to be a hunter by his mish-mash of grey mail and leather garb, stood bandaging a small burn-mark along his forearm. His blond, shortly-cropped hair was burnt at the bangs, brittle and ashen.

“Well, what’d he say, Fennie? You were closest to hi – wait. No. I got it.” He cleared his throat. Then, in an exaggerated voice that resembled a poor imitation of Wrathion’s, complete with the usual, charming lilt, he said: “I shall kill allllll my brothers and sisters!”

Wrathion glared. They were talking about him.

“Yeah. So?” The worgen was sharpening her claws with a crooked dagger, filing them into sharper points. She blew at them; fine dust flew from her paws.

The hunter shrugged and went back to assembling his bandage. “Just rubbed me the wrong way. I dunno.”

“I’ve got zero sympathy for the big one,” the worgen drawled. She did not look up from her claws. “I saw enough black dragons during the Cataclysm to know they’re no good – as did the rest of you lot. Wrathion deserves a nice pat on the back for dealing with the whole charade.” The tip of her dagger slid beneath her claws now, picking at the bloodied dirt underneath. “Anyway, I’m glad it’s done with. ‘Least the prince is safe.”

“But that’s just it, though! Wrathion’s one of them, too.”

“One of who?”

“A black dragon. Doesn’t that strike you as a bit funny? I mean, he’s waltzin’ about saying he’s the last, then a contender shows up and he tries to kill it?”

“He should kill it, you moron. Like I just said, they’re all bad business -”

Fennie piped up. She looked concerned. “Now, I dun’ know too much about the dragon prince, but from what Prince Anduin tells me he’s a nice enough lad. An ‘if Prince Anduin likes ‘im, it’s a wee hard not ta take that ta heart.”

The hunter clucked his tongue. “Fennie, Prince Anduin likes everybody. No offense to the kid, but… come on. He’s all smiles and rainbows.” He looked at the worgen. “See, you said they’re all a bad business. Even Wrathion, huh?”

The worgen paused, then rolled her eyes. “No, no. He’s ‘purified,’ isn’t he? He’s a bit grating, sure, but…”

“I cannot deny that the look in the young dragon’s face upon taking down his brethren was… uncomfortable to look at.” It was the night elf. His voice was deep and melodic, pleasing to the ears.

“’Uncomfortable?’”

The elf nodded. He frowned. “A certain look of blood-lust.” He motioned with a flat hand to the hunter. “You are overexcited in such… conspiracies, but I did not like the young one’s response, either. It did not sit well with me – nor did the elder dragon’s apparent lucidity.” The night elf shook his head. “As it did not sit well with many others, I have seen.”

The hunter grunted. He looked around. Wrathion pushed his belly deeper into the tent, lowering himself even further from view; the human didn’t see him.

“Yeah. Everyone’s pissed.”

The worgen interrupted. “That isn’t because of the big dragon. Bloody hell! You’re grasping at straws, here, Seamus.”

The hunter huffed. “Well, what’s the deal, then?”

The she-beast chuckled. “What, you dunno? That’s… pretty funny, actually, considering how riled up you are. Anyway,” she sheathed her dagger, “I dunno the whole story, myself, but seems Wrathion’s been going around claiming loyalty to both Horde and to us.” She snorted. “Lotsa’ people were antsy about it when Varian let him on board this rescue mission. Aerandir especially. Did you see his face after he spoke with the dragon? I thought he was going to shoot him right there.”

“Hah! The dragon’s a double-crosser, then!”

“There is no link between such stories and this,” the night elf said. “Control yourself, friend.”

The worgen made a deep humming noise in her throat. “I wouldn’t be too sure ‘bout that. I think it made some people angrier.”

The hunter nodded quickly. “See? I’m telling you! It just goes to show that -” he lowered his voice conspiratorially “- you can’t really trust a black dragon. Even a so-called ‘pure’ one.” He scoffed. “I mean, jeez. With that, I wonder what else he could be lying about? This whole thing seems too shifty, to me, and with what you just said -”

“Aw, come off it, Seamus,” Fennie said. She stopped shining the dented metal of the harness and tucked the rag into her belt while flinging the harness over her shoulder where it lay still. “Jus’ let it go. Prince Anduin ‘s safe, an’ that’s what we came fer’. Let the dragon Prince do his business.”

Wrathion did not wait for the human’s response. Quietly, he slid back down the tent.

He stopped at the ledge. His wings folded in tight around his body.

So that’s why he had been getting the lingering looks, the dirty glances, why most of the Alliance had drifted away without helping -

You can’t really trust a black dragon.

The fins along his neck lowered and Wrathion scowled silently to himself. His breath started to heave.

He was losing his carefully crafted trust he had instilled in his champions, and now in everyone – slowly but surely.

A certain look of blood-lust.

\- the elder dragon’s apparent lucidity -

Wrathion ran a paw over the side of his face. He looked around the camp almost desperately. No one saw him.

How many of them had lost trust in him – both from rumors and from the tied-up dragon being dealt with as he sat here, alone and unguarded? He could not speak to everyone. He couldn’t sway every person to think he was trustworthy, that he wasn’t the “bad business” the worgen had said of all black dragons. He knew that.

But his champions had always trusted him – mostly. He’d given them rewards, words of praise, hospitality… and most had spoken kindly of him to their peers, if not with some frustration, as his Blacktalons often reported. His reputation was one of mystery but also one of intrigue; the fear of the color of his hide and eyes had slowly been replaced by a trust, an interest, and he could grin thinking he, he himself, had helped push away the prejudices the mortals had against him, that he had showed them he was no monster, that he was looking out for the greater good -

He took a deep breath to try to still his racing head, but it did little good.

And now with Sabellian, all of it was being taken away.

Sure – Wrathion could admit that lying to Alliance and Horde alike about his loyalties to their faction and not the other had been unfortunate, but altogether necessary. He had to form initial trust somehow, did he not? A grinning, smooth white lie. That was all it was. And no one knew about it until the damned elder dragon started running his mouth!

And once that initial trust was lost – once the unease began, an unease directed towards him – the mortals had surely been waiting and watching to see his actions, to see if he was all that good, after all. And they’d seen him here. With “blood-lust.” With a contending black dragon who seemed lucid enough to them, one he wanted to kill.

Thus the avoiding glances, the effort to get out of the way from his path – they probably thought him untrustworthy again, not worthy to be dealt with, just like his brothers and sisters, just like his Father, just like -…

Do not let hatred control you, young one, as it controlled your father.

A small whine bubbled at his throat. He cut it off quickly. No. They didn’t understand. None of them could! He wasn’t like them -like Deathwing. He was doing this for the greater good. The worgen was right. All of the black dragons besides him were bad. Monsters. Out of their mind. Emotionless. And he was not a monster like them.

Sabellian struggling fiercely against the chains, smoke popping and hissing from where the electricity buzzed and cracked against his plated scales, flickered into his mind’s eye.

Emotionless? A quiet voice prodded at the back of his head. How sure are you of that?

Wrathion growled and jumped from the tent, landing near Anduin’s. He glanced up at the closed entrance, glared at it, then slinked around the side, plopping himself against part of the tent where the excess fabric had been balled up and set into the ground by a large pole.

He didn’t want to be seen by passerbys; the small whelp burrowed into the cloth, tucked his tail inside, then popped just the end of his snout out the other end so he could see. He glared at Sik’vess.

Sabellian had to be emotionless, though, Wrathion tried to convince himself. He tucked in his broken forearm to his chest and sat his head down flat on the grass. Sabellian was corrupted. Wrathion had killed an ally of his and had revealed himself; of course Sabellian had come to kill him - to take the competition out of the way. The sob story about his children had to be just that – one to fool him.

Right?

Wrathion growled. He tried not to think back on the Tavern and the Kun-lai cave – the snarling, protective anger that had bloomed across Sabellian’s face as Wrathion mocked Ryxia’s death, the flickering of regret in the elder dragon’s eyes as he spoke about his monstrous acts back on Azeroth.

And then, just now, that same anger at Wrathion’s threat on Sabellian’s own children, a ferocious and frenzied anger, more ferocious even than Sabellian’s attacks on Alexstrasza -

Strength used in the service of others is twice as powerful as strength spent on our foes.

Wrathion grumbled. Xuen had told him that.

If Sabellian truly did care for his children – the Black Prince hesitated, as if his thoughts were barred from finishing the train of thought.

And so he laid there pouting for some time, watching the Alliance go to and fro as they took care of the injured gryphons while packing up the harpoons to take back to the Shado-pan.

The Black Prince didn’t know what to do.

All of this sudden doubt worried him. He glanced at his claws, as if waiting for them to lengthen and warp as they had when the Sha had taken him over.

Perhaps speaking to Prince Anduin might help. Wrathion looked to his side, at the tent, and squinted. The fabric was too thick to see through.

His fins went completely flat again. Anduin might tease him with more I told you so’s. Wrathion tapped his claws on the grass.

But then again, it might be better to speak to him than have all of this doubt build up and up - and the fear of the Sha was thick in his chest.

Besides, he was going to check on the prince, anyway. He could easily slip his troubles into the conversation.

Wrathion shimmied out from underneath his hiding spot and shifted back into human form. He tried to draw himself up, tried to make himself look presentable and suave for the blond, but his shoulders kept slouching and his usual, smarmy smile refused to stick to his lips.

He ran a frustrated hand over his face. He wanted to stomp his feet and groan. He had Sabellian. He was supposed to feel as victorious as he had when the dragon had come crashing down to earth.

But now this had to happen. Wrathion grumbled. Why was he even doubting himself? Why was -

Wrathion hissed between his teeth, turned, and made his way to the entrance of the tent.

—-

Wrathion squinted at the closed entryway of the cloth tent.

All he had to do was go in. He took a deep breath and shifted his weight. The grass was spongy beneath his feet. He swallowed.

Maybe this was a foolish idea. Wrathion glanced back behind his shoulder at where his Blacktalons were carefully plucking the majority of the chains from Sabellian. He could just make out the tip of the elder dragon’s wings.

He worked his jaw back and forth.

Anduin might laugh -

The cloth flap flicked open and a female night elf nearly rammed into him, catching herself just before she did. The dragon jumped up in surprise, head snapping back, before he quickly composed himself. He cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry,” the night elf said. Her voice was a sigh, as if she was chronically exhausted. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Blood stained her gloves. Wrathion found himself staring at them before he looked up at her face.

“That’s – uhm, alright,” Wrathion mumbled. He glanced behind her shoulder; the flap had closed again.

“The prince is being healed,” the elf said. She moved around him, plucking her soiled gloves off. “You may go in. He has been asking about you.”

The elf moved off to the gryphons, the burnt grass crunching underneath her feet. Wrathion watched her go from the corner of his eye. He focused back on the tent.

All he had to do was go inside. Wrathion felt like a fool. Anduin would scoff at him, surely…

But the prince was asking for him. Maybe-…

Wrathion shook his head, scowling at himself. He had to stop all of this doubt; he couldn’t afford to give into that again.

And so the Black Prince drew himself up, brushed off the dirt from his wrinkled clothes, and grabbed the flap. He took a deep breath and pulled it back; he stepped inside, closing it behind him.

It was darker inside. Sitting on the floor, on a makeshift cushion of a gryphon’s under-blanket, was Anduin; his head was bent, his mussy blond hair falling down across his face, and his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Kneeling in front of him was a shaman – the draenei shaman who had summoned the fountain of water during Sabellian’s attack on the harpoons. Her blue-skinned hand waved gently over Anduin’s left arm, which was propped up on the shaman’s lap.

Wrathion couldn’t see the wound from his position. He went to stand on the tip of his toes to crane his head over the draenei’s shoulder when Anduin looked up and saw him.

Much to Wrathion’s relief, the prince smiled at him, albeit tiredly.

“Wrathion.” Anduin’s voice was hoarse.

Wrathion smiled back, though his was a bit more wobbly. “Prince Anduin.”

The draenei glanced behind her shoulder and saw him. She nodded her head, the beads in her dark lavender hair clinking, and was quick to look down at Anduin’s arm again. A gentle blue glow began again in her lithe hands, and the twinkling of water, faint, bubbled in the tent.

Relieved at Anduin’s smile and the fact that the draenei hadn’t ushered him out, the dragon inched his way over, cautious, to the shaman’s side. He looked down at Anduin’s arm; the wound was no longer bleeding, but that did not make it any less critical. The cut was deep, nearly to the bone, and the skin parted back at a curved v to show the red flesh beneath. Like he had seen in the stairway, Wrathion noted the black-green edges of the wound, as if the skin had been scorched.

The shaman’s brows were bunched and her hand glided back and forth over the wound. Wrathion watched quietly. He was tempted to sit down next to Anduin but thought better of it with the shaman there.

The draenei’s movements were relaxing to look at. Back and forth, back and forth. The sound of the water only helped to droop Wrathion’s eyelids.

Though with each pass over Anduin’s wound, only small bits of skin began to inch their way across to stitch back together. Wrathion frowned to himself. Shouldn’t that have been going faster?

“It was fel iron,” Anduin said with a small, forced laugh, as if he had understood the confusion on Wrathion’s face. “The dagger Sabellian used, I mean. It must have been the same one they used on you. I’m not sure if you were -… lucid enough to remember, but your cuts healed very slowly like this one is.”

Wrathion glanced down at his own left arm. Just peeking out of the sleeve was one of the scars of said-cuts, shallow and sharp. He nodded, though honestly, he didn’t remember much about it.

“Ah,” he murmured. Anduin kept staring at him. The prince frowned.

“Can you please leave us for a moment?” Anduin asked. Wrathion, for a terrible second, thought the blond was talking to him before looking away from his scar and seeing that Anduin had directed it to the shaman. “I’m fine. It’s nearly healed, anyway.”

Liar, Wrathion thought.

The shaman hesitated. “I am not thinking that -”

“Please,” Anduin added.

After another moment of hesitation the draenei nodded. “Only being for a moment, Prince Anduin,” she said. She dug through the small golden satchel at her waist and plucked out bandages which looked as if they were made of leaves and rock bits. Carefully, she wrapped them about Anduin’s wound.

Wrathion watched Anduin’s face. The prince looked up, eyes trained on the ceiling, his mouth set in a line. It must have been hurting him, but the blond didn’t even blink or cry out; he didn’t even move.

When it was done the draenei stood. She eyed Wrathion.

“You be good,” she warned, and with a muffled clop clip clop of her wrapped hooves she left the tent.

Anduin and Wrathion were alone. The Black Prince said nothing as Anduin looked down from the ceiling, took a deep breath and looked over his gauzed arm.

“We match,” Wrathion announced with a small, almost nervous, grin, and jutted out his cast. Anduin looked up and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Well – nearly,” Wrathion added, once realizing that his own wounded arm was the right, and Anduin’s the left.

“It’s close enough,” Anduin said. He smiled for another moment longer before it fell, slowly, from his face. His eyes became serious. “What’s wrong?”

Wrathion’s grin fell as Anduin’s had. He cleared his throat. Was he that obviously distressed, or could the perceptive prince read him that easily?

“Ah -” Wrathion shifted his feet. “Nothing. I only came to speak to you.”

Anduin stared at him. He sighed, then gestured to where the draenei had been sitting. “Well, sit down and stay awhile, then,” the blond said with a small teasing tone, though he still sounded tired.

Wrathion did as he was told, folding his legs in a comfortable criss-cross. The ground was soft, at least. The Black Prince busied himself with plucking some blades of grass from the floor, all too aware Anduin was staring at him.

“So you have your brother,” Anduin stated, flatly. Wrathion glanced up. Anduin’s eyes were lidded, and his expression unreadable.

“So I do.” Wrathion rubbed the plucked grass between his thumb and forefinger and sighed. He let them fall from his grip.

“Where is he?”

“I asked Left to deal with him. I had other matters to attend to.” Wrathion gestured his head to Anduin. “Such as yourself.”

Anduin only nodded. “Honestly, I would have thought you would have wanted to be out there to watch.”

Wrathion shrugged; he glanced down. “I was,” he said. “But as I said. I had other matters to attend to.” He paused and frowned. “What’s that human phrase? ‘Killing two birds with one stone?’”

Anduin laughed quietly. “Yes, that’s it.”

“Well, there you are. I am killing two birds with one stone. I am having my brother taken care of while I speak to you.”

He went quiet; what else could he say that would not give away the doubt that gnawed at him?

Anduin looked at him with that serious glint again. “Wrathion -”

“Does that hurt?” The Black Prince blurted, eager to interrupt the blond. He gestured with a nod of his head to Anduin’s cast.

Anduin blinked and looked down at his wrapped wound. “Not as much as it did,” he admitted. His pale right hand trailed down the leafy gauze. “Ella – uhm, the shaman – is very skilled, though.”

Wrathion had a feeling Anduin was playing the pain down – as always. He reached out and took the prince’s wrist with his hand and brought Anduin’s arm closer.

Though he was unable to see the wound, he could see how the smooth skin that had been been hidden beneath the bandage was red and swollen. Wrathion stared at it silently; Anduin didn’t try to move his arm away.

“And your burns?” The Black Prince asked after a minute, gently releasing Anduin’s wrist. Anduin drew it back.

“Healed, mostly,” Anduin said off-handedly. “Really, though – I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” He nodded to Anduin’s right leg. “And that?”

Anduin gave him a sharp look, but soon relaxed. He sighed.

“Alright. That hurts. A little.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It was -… odd, though. I don’t think Sabellian really wanted to hurt me too much.”

Wrathion scoffed. “You have an enormous gash across your arm, burn marks on your back, and your leg is set back weeks in healing. I think he wanted to hurt you, Prince Anduin.”

Anduin looked at the floor. His thin brows tilted down, and he bit at the bottom corner of his lip, the same way he did when he was struggling with a move in their board game.

“Maybe,” he sighed. “I don’t know. We talked for a while. He was … rude, I can’t deny that, but -” A smile flicked up Anduin’s face. “You should have heard him start ranting about Onyxia. It was actually pretty funny.”

The curl of unease Wrathion had felt outside began to flicker in his chest again, as if someone was taking a sharp-edged feather and brushing it across his innards. “Oh.” He cleared his throat in an attempt to dislodge the feeling. It didn’t work.

“Yes, well. Small talk and action are two different things. He hurt you, and now I will make sure he regrets it – as well as regret what he did to me.”

Anduin looked up at him. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again.

“I know your stance on what I should do – or, rather, not do – to Sabellian already, dear prince,” Wrathion mumbled. “But I don’t quite have a choice.”

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself,” Anduin said. Wrathion ground his teeth. The prince was too perceptive.

The Black Prince rubbed at his neck and didn’t answer at first; he avoided Anduin’s eyes.

“Wrathion, why did you really come in here?”

“To see yo -”

“Other than to see me.”

Wrathion huffed. He hesitated. How should he start?

Perhaps he should just say it outright. Anduin had already guessed something was wrong; wasting time by skirting around the topic would just be that – a waste of time.

“I am – I am doing the right thing, aren’t I?” Wrathion looked up at Anduin. He felt like an idiot the moment the words came out of his mouth, but at the same time, it was like he couldn’t stop speaking. “With Sabellian.”

Anduin hesitated. “I -”

“Because I had to kill the rest of them two years ago. I did. I had to.” He looked at Anduin wildly. Something, perhaps the more logical part of him, was hissing at him to stop speaking, that he was making a fool out of himself, that his sentences were muddling together in a ramble. But he couldn’t stop. “Even Fahrad, who was never nothing but loyal to me.”

Wrathion ran a hand down his face and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, though it worked little. “But I had to kill him all the same. He was corrupted. It was – it was my duty to. I had to be the last. I was the only purified dragon. My Flight couldn’t have such outliers like – like Fahrad any longer.” The dragon’s red eyes locked in on Anduin’s blue ones. “And I felt nothing when he fell. Or when Nalice fell. Or when my Father fell. No twinge of remorse or pity - because I had to do it or no one else would. I was proud of myself.”

“Wrathion -”

“And it was a good thing! Azeroth did not have any use of my corrupted family any longer.” He rubbed his right upper arm with his left hand; his eyes dropped from Anduin’s again. “They couldn’t endanger anyone ever again because of me. And – and that was the right thing to do at the time.” His eyes flicked back up to Anduin, almost pleading. “Don’t you agree?”

Anduin hesitated before nodding. “Yes. I… think it was. You saved a lot of people by doing that.”

The Black Prince relaxed, but only just. He nodded to himself, the little pieces of metal at the end of his turban jingling. He started pulling at the grass again and looked off to the side.

“And you’re… not sure if that’s the right thing to do with Sabellian now?” Anduin prodded after a long moment of silence.

Wrathion’s claws dug deep into the earth. The roots of the grass popped underneath the pressure. The dirt was cool against his fingertips.

The Black Prince didn’t answer immediately. He took a deep breath and withdrew his claws from the ground, flicking the dirt from the claws’ sharpened edges with his thumb.

“I need to know if I am doing the right thing,” Wrathion repeated, slowly, the words awkward on his tongue. He wet his lips and looked at Anduin. “Put yourself in my position, dear prince, and look without bias. If a corrupt member of your family came, destroyed your home, killed one of your best allies, and tortured you, when it was your… – your responsibility to protect the name of your tarnished Flight… humor me. What would you do?”

Anduin frowned. “Well, Wrathion,” he started. “I don’t want to make you angrier, but… wouldn’t your position be the most biased?”

Wrathion stared.

“You don’t know if he’s even corrupted at all,” Anduin continued before Wrathion had any idea of what to say. “And you’re so intent on thinking that he is that it’s clouded your judgment. All you’ve ever really done is - excuse my bluntness – kill your family.”

The flittering of unease at his chest multiplied.

“… And now you’re thinking he’s not corrupt,” Anduin said.

Wrathion glared.

“You are too smart for your own good, Prince Anduin.”

Anduin smiled tiredly. “I’ve been told that often.”

The dragon’s shoulders sagged. “You’re right. For once,” he quickly added. He didn’t want to give way to Anduin so easily – but even he could not deny that Sabellian’s emotions had become evident to him in that ferocious struggle. “But I cannot take the risk of thinking he is not and finding later he is. And I cannot let him get away with what he did to me.”

“You… were the first one to attack,” Anduin pointed out. Wrathion grumbled. “You can’t really blame him for what he did to you. What if he had been the one to attack first, and kill Right? Wouldn’t you have gone to attack him, like he attacked you?”

Wrathion scowled to himself. “Of course I can blame him for it!” The dragon whined. Anduin looked at him. The Black Prince stared back, eyes narrowed – then sighed and with a quick movement, slid his turban off to fluff at his unruly black hair underneath as if to calm himself. “Alright. Fine. I would have done the same thing. Are you happy? Drop that judgmental look of yours.”

Anduin sighed. “I’m just trying to make you understand a different viewpoint. I’m not trying to judge you.”

Wrathion grumbled incoherently again. He busied himself with tracing a claw over the golden embellishment against the red metal band that held his turban together, which was draped along one of his knees.

“I don’t know what to do.” The admittance of it made Wrathion want to flinch – he was the Black Prince, he always had a plan – but this situation was different. “You are right. I have always killed my brothers and sisters. I don’t know anything else.” He ground his teeth; one of them bit against the soft flesh beneath his lip and the thick, hot taste of his own blood seeped into his mouth. Wrathion raised a hand and brushed at his lip without really thinking of the movement. “But you have to understand that I had to.” He rolled his shoulders back, square against his spine. He looked at Anduin again; he was glad to see the prince wasn’t looking at him pity, or with judgment, but with a serious, open look. “And I did so without hesitation.”

Wrathion growled, then. In his open rambling, he was repeating himself. Where was his usual, smooth charm, his ability to speak so fluidly? “Alexstrasza spoke to me - after Sabellian took you.” He tapped his claws against the metal band with a rap tap rap. “She – she said I might be the enemy. That she would not hesitate in destroying me if Sabellian’s brood was pure and I killed them. To -” he hesitated. “To not be like my Father and let my hate overtake me.”

“The fact that you’re questioning yourself about if you’re doing the right thing or not doesn’t make you at all like Deathwing, Wrathion,” Anduin said. “You were just reacting in the only way you knew how to… not like I condone how you acted, though,” Anduin added. Wrathion rolled his eyes.

“But I shouldn’t be questioning myself!” Wrathion argued. “I should have had those harpoons kill him and have been done with it. I have had enough doubt from my -…” He hesitated, shook his head, and forced himself to continue; he couldn’t deny it any longer. “… Experience… with the Sha.”

Anduin blinked. He looked almost surprised Wrathion had brought it up, but the prince was quick to wipe the look from his face. “There’s good doubt and then there’s bad doubt, I guess.”

Wrathion snorted.

“You asked me if I thought you were doing the right thing,” Anduin began after a long, full minute of silence, “and honestly, I’m not sure how to answer. You’re right. He might be corrupted like the others you had killed. If that’s true, I would somehow force him back to Blade’s Edge -”

“And refrain from killing him,” Wrathion chided. “You have a weak stomach, dear prince.”

“For killing? Yes.” Anduin sighed. “But that’s me, personally. But if you did decide to kill him – if he is corrupted - I wouldn’t look down on you for it. This is your fight, not mine. In your own words, I guess ‘peace constrains me.’” It sounded like Anduin was trying to make a joke, but it failed miserably.

Wrathion smiled anyway, though it was quick to fall. He traced circles in the grass and dirt. “And if he isn’t corrupted?”

Anduin hesitated. Wrathion glanced up at him.

“I think you know my answer on that,” Anduin said quietly.

Wrathion made a small mm in the back of his throat and looked down again. He made a wobbly dragon head-like shape in the dirt and poked in two tiny eyes with the tip of his claws.

“Speak to him,” Wrathion said with an over exaggerated sigh. “Make a deal with him. That’s what you would do.”

Anduin nodded.

“And excuse him for everything.”

“Well, maybe not everything -”

“Because even if he is not corrupted he has done worse things.” Wrathion gestured to his cast arm. “To me -” He nodded to Anduin. “And to you.” The memory of being thrown from the Tavern, being crushed underneath Sabellian’s weight, Right going over the edge, his arm twisting, drudged up from the corner of his mind and he shook his head, willing them out. “Inexcusable things.”

“I know. I’m not trying to excuse what Sabellian did, either, but…” Anduin sighed. “This has to end, somehow, and I would prefer it with you alive, and if Sabellian is uncorrupted, him going home.”

Wrathion groaned in frustration. “Why is this so hard?” He lifted his left hand and stuck up his pointer finger. “Sabellian is corrupted, and I gladly kill him.” He stuck up another finger. “Sabellian is not corrupted, and I still gladly kill him for what he did to me.” He stuck up a third finger. “Sabellian is not corrupted, and I follow your advice and force myself to… speak to him.” He growled. “And if we let each other off free and clear, I look weak and everything was for naught.”

“I guess you finally understand why the Alliance and the Horde struggle so hard in finding peace with one another,” Anduin said with a humorless smile. Wrathion looked at him, surprised.

“Oh, well – yes,” Wrathion mumbled. He dropped his hand. He shook his head, brows bunching together. “But tell me, dear prince, how can I allow Sabellian to live when there are too many risks that go along with it?” He ran a hand through his hair again then slipped on his turban, positioning it in place and picking a blade of grass from the creamy white fabric. “Let us say – hypothetically – he is not corrupted. He says it is because of his time in Outland.” He narrowed his eyes at Anduin. “But he is not in Outland any longer, is he? If -… if I heard Y’shaarj, then he will, too. He is not purified like I am. They will take him, and he will fall as my Father did, and he will wreak havoc on the mortal races. And then I will add allowing him to live as another mistake I have made.” He sighed. “The lives of the mortals he would end up killing would be on my hands, Prince Anduin, because I did not do what I had to.”

“Then you could send him back to Outland. He could -”

“Do you honestly believe that he would want to stay there?” Wrathion scoffed. “After seeing Azeroth again?”

Anduin paused. The prince saw his point.

“Then you could help him find something to totally purify him.” Wrathion started to raise a lip to scowl but Anduin hurried on. “You wouldn’t have to worry about him, then – or the others in his family. If they came to Azeroth, which you think they might, you two could go your separate ways. You wouldn’t even have to see each other ever again.”

Wrathion shook his head. “Why would I help him?”

“To help yourself!”

Wrathion huffed. “That’s pushing it. A forced peace I might be able to live with, but I would not help him further.”

“Now you’re just being stubborn.”

Wrathion huffed for the second time. “It would be like asking you to help Garrosh after the Divine Bell fiasco. Even you with your grand ideas of peace and harmony might balk at the mere idea.”

Anduin’s eyes sharpened. “If helping Garrosh meant peace between our factions, then I would do it.”

“Then that is where we differ,” Wrathion mumbled. He saw the reason behind Anduin’s words, but there was no way he could do something like helping an enemy. Better to crush them than look weak, than to look like a scared child; better to kill an enemy quietly rather than allowing them to get away with what they had done, what they had destroyed, and what they had harmed and killed, even if it may have been the right thing to do in the long run.

“But I do not want to look like a monster, Anduin,” he added, more quietly. “And I am afraid that killing Sabellian and his brood will make me look like one.” He looked at Anduin earnestly. “You understood how I had to kill my brothers and sisters before. I should – I should kill these hidden ones before there is any chance they wreak chaos, shouldn’t I? You have to see my reasoning. Perhaps it is the right thing. Isn’t it?” He sounded a bit desperate. Speaking aloud had solidified his former crazed, rambling, confused thoughts, had made some sense now, but even still, the doubt was there, so thick it was almost painful. “And I cannot allow him to escape with what he did either. I cannot sit here and – and do nothing at all!”

The Tavern destroyed, Right’s death, the torture, his arm, the sickness, the Sha -

It was all Sabellian’s fault. He shook his head. No. He could not allow the elder dragon to slip by so easily.

But true wisdom comes from knowing what is right, and sometimes doing nothing at all.

The sighing voice of Yu’lon slipped into his mind. Wrathion felt his insides pull and twist. The memory of the Celestial’s blessing was fresh – and a blessing that had just presented itself.

He scowled inwardly. Yes, what an excellent blessing – only one that made him more confused!

But no, she – she would not understand this. Just as Alexstrasza could not. He tried to rationalize it in his head as Anduin hesitated in answering.

No other option besides killing Sabellian made sense. He had to kill him and his brood. It was the only way. Wasn’t it? He would be doing Azeroth a favor.

Anduin bit the inside of his cheek. His light, concerned eyes studied the dragon’s face for a moment; Wrathion only looked back. The prince had to agree, surely -

“I’m not sure if that’s the right thing to do, Wrathion.” He paused, thoughtfully. “It’s –… it’s like how the Alliance put the orcs in the internment camps, just out of the fear they would become crazed again.” Anduin frowned at him. “It’s not right. I’m sorry.”

“But it’s the only thing that makes any amount of sense!” Wrathion’s voice rose. His shoulders hunched sharply, nearly aggressively, in his burst of frustration, and his claws dug back into the dirt. “It must be the right thing to do. It must be.” He spoke as if reassuring himself, his voice lowering to a murmur before rising again.

“Just because it’s the easiest way out doesn’t make it right,” Anduin murmured. Wrathion looked at him sharply. Anduin looked back.

Wrathion scowled to himself and looked back down; he didn’t say anything for a long, quiet handful of minutes. The cloth tent flapped in a gust of wind.

“As you said, Prince Anduin,” Wrathion said, his voice slow, calculated, and quiet, “this must end somehow. And -” He looked up at the blond prince. “- it will end how I wish it to end. My choice will be the right one.”

“’Right’ in your standards, or in mine?”

Wrathion grinned, though his teeth only just showed; it was a pathetic, forced smile. “I suppose we’ll find out.”


	15. Chapter 15

The bodies of the Blacktalon agents lay in a loose pile against the hard dirt, stacked upon one another with little care regarding their positions; arms stuck out, heads were flat against the ground, legs twisted in on one another. In the afternoon heat of the burning red nether-streams above, they’d soon begin to rot.

Around them, the other after-effects of the battle were marked by the large scorch marks that spanned the ground, black and thick and smoking. Huge pockets of earth were overturned; boulders the size of Samia’s torso lay in heaps like the bodies. Curdled earth, burned and liquified by the lava Samia herself had summoned, slunk into the ground in ravines like rivers.

And the smell was foul. The bodies were one thing – fleshy, tangy, a smell that was making Samia’s empty stomach roll – but the smell of the destroyed earth, deep and burnt, and the lingering smell of fear was the worst of them all. Sharp and sour.

Samia stared vacantly, her arms crossed and her back stiff. The stab wound below her left ribcage burned, but she was ignoring it, as she had ignored it through the night, through the morning, and now through the afternoon. She had more pressing things to take care of than herself.

Like the bodies.

“We should eat them,” one drake said. Most of the brood was on its feet, their gashes and wounds closed from bleeding from their fire or from Rexxar’s salve, which had come in great use and had saved the life of one of the younger drakes. The drake, and others who were not up to par, now curled in the cave to sleep and rest in the darkness.

They had been lucky not to have any of them die – too lucky, Samia thought.

“Or tear them up,” another drake suggested. Her forearm was tucked up to her chest, one of the talons mangled.

“Or feed them to the raptors!”

“That’s enough,” Samia called out, interrupting any more of the suggestions before they got out of hand. Her tired frustration shook in depth of her voice. “We’ll burn them. No eating.”

The first drake to speak scoffed. “A ritual burning?”

“I didn’t say that. Burn them like meat. Then we might give them to the raptors.”

A low, pleased thrumming rumbled through the brood. Samia sighed. At least that had satisfied that; she was loath to give in to their other suggestions, as tempting as they were. She wanted nothing more than to tear the bodies limb from limb, to cause them pain even in death.

But unfortunately, she could not allow herself to give into her anger. It reminded her too much of a time when anger was all she ever felt – and besides, she had little time to be angry. The brood came first before her own selfish desires.

“Thalarian, Ylaria – you two are the largest and the least injured. Drag them away down the valley for burning where the raptors might find them.”

Without Nasandria and Talsian, Thalarian and Ylaria were the eldest – of the same clutch as the two who had left and had yet to return. Thalarian was struggling to keep his closing eyes open. His black horns were gently curved forwards – a gene from his mother, who had had the curved ram-like horns of most black dragons. Ylaria was smaller than her brother, but no less able. The bright, intense color of orange belly and wings forebode her intense skill in a fight; it was she who had tackled the first rogue to attack.

The two drakes bowed their heads – and then Ylaria snatched her maw forward, viper-like, grabbed an orc from the top of the pile, and with a deep grunt lifted into the air. Blood dripped from the body down from its ankles.

Thalarian followed suit, grabbing an elf, but trotted after Ylaria rather than flying; despite his size, the dead weight of the meat must have still been a strain judging by the shake in his hunched black shoulders.

Samia exhaled. Thick smoke drew from her nose. Her arms tightened in their criss-cross against her chest.

The remaining brood stared at her – save for some of the hatchlings, Alacian included, who were tussling with one another off to the side. Dust gusted up from their tumbling claws and their peeps and squawks were the only noise in the quiet, tired valley – though far away she could hear the calls of the raptor packs rebounding against the spiked mountains and even even fainter squawks of the arakkoa’s kaliri in the forests nestled above to their sides.

The quiet was unnerving, and the mood grim. The drakes’ heads were bent; most of their eyes were half-closed. Scanning over them now, Samia noted how each had sustained some injury – a gash across the chest, the face, a forearm… sword marks against the webbings of wings, the spiked club of tails. It made Samia’s black-clad claws dig more into her upper arms; they threatened to pop through the thick black fabric of her tunic.

She sighed again and rubbed at her eyes. No. They’d been too lucky. Perhaps the others knew it too; their glum eyes that watched her now belayed it.

Piling the bodies of the Black Prince’s assassins had distracted them, at least, but with that now in the hands of Thalarian and Ylaria -…

“Continue to treat each others’ wounds,” Samia said. Some of the drakes mumbled. She eyed them; they stopped. “We’ll plan what to do next.”

“There’s nothing else to plan,” mumbled a drake. “How -”

A high-pitched cry overshadowed the drake’s next words; it was so shrilling and fierce even Samia jumped. She looked up with a scowl. Her ears rang.

Arcing above, head lashed back in a cry, flew a veridian nether-drake. Trailing behind her were three others: two blue, one black, and one violet. Their bright, multi-colored hides were neon against the red sky.

They were headed towards the cave that sat quietly some yards behind the brood. Samia watched them with her lips pursed.

“That makes – well, that makes ten – no. Eleven.” Another black nether-drake sailed over their heads. The sheen of the energy trailing off of the mutated dragons’ bodies fell on Samia’s face; she wrinkled her nose at the gentle sting. The drake who had spoken – a young dragon by the name of Pyria, whose maturing black horns were too big for her head – continued. “They got here very fast from Shadowmoon.”

“Their broodfather is close to dying,” Samia murmured. She watched them disappear over the cave’s top, where on the other side they would find Neltharaku, just as Samia and Rexxar had immediately after the scuffle – stabbed through the ankle and poisoned with a fierce venom, so fierce even the great half-orc hunter was having trouble identifying its origins.

He must have still been working with the nether-dragon; Samia had not seen him in hours while she’d attended to the brood and cleaned up the mess the assassins had left-… but she had seen the continual arrival of the nether-dragons, coming in groups like the one that had just passed overhead. One of the nether-drakes stationed at Blade’s Edge must have sent word back of their father’s condition – as well as the additional deaths of two of their brethren, whose bodies had already been burned before they could rot like the mortals’ were threatening to now.

Samia shook her head and sighed. Her injuries began to pain again – in her back, in her arms, on the scabbing scratch from the dagger along her nose. “You would have flown fast for Father.”

“Father’s probably dead,” Pyria mumbled.

One of the hatchlings that wasn’t playing puffed out his chest and squawked. “What?”

“Dead or worse,” another drake added.

“What can be worse than dead?”

“The Old Gods.”

“Father said they were dead!”

“Stop. Everyone be quiet!” Samia snapped as the voices began to escalate on one another, growing in volume and in hysteria.

The brood went silent again. Another cry from the nether-dragons behind them resounded and echoed off of the valley – a lonely, frightful sound.

“We are not vaulting into conclusions,” Samia said. Her voice was quiet and even. “We were attacked by the Black Prince’s minions, but that doesn’t mean Father’s dead. Now do what I told you. Do not leave the valley. No hunting. If you grow hungry, tell me. No one will be going into the forests to feed.”

The lot stared at her glumly -… save for the playing hatchlings, who were oblivious to the talk and continued to tackle and bite one another, kicking up plumes of dust.

“Good.” Samia shifted into dragon form and stretched out her aching wings. Every part of her hurt. She hadn’t slept since last night; her stomach was empty and sour.

The dragon lifted into the air. She turned her wings and followed the path the nether-drakes had taken. The smell of dead flesh, blood, and burnt earth fell away as she flew, and she relaxed – but only just.

She glanced to her right as she glided through the dry air. The waxy green of the forest that grew above the valley peeked through the vicious brown spikes that jutted out towards her, as if reaching for her. It was a jarring separation – the dusty, grim, death of the spiked valley holding out the lusher life of the green, wet forest above.

Though Samia did not think about the forest with kindness, now. She glared at it. It was there that the remaining rogues had escaped – lost in the thick bush and ancient trees. Samia had spent enough time in those forests to know that getting lost inside was easy – and hiding even easier.

The cave grew close. Samia looked away from the forest.

She struck up at a vertical, the dry wind whistling against her, before straightening out. Above the cave was a flatter level; the brood had often used it to place growing hatchlings on when being taught how to fly, nudging them over the edge which was at a safe distance to the ground.

But now it was occupied.

The eleven nether-drakes who’d come from Shadowmoon Valley from the south sat against the edges of the level. Their bodies crackled. Nether-energy warped and hissed around their hides, lightning-like, and their claws gripped tight against the rock beneath. Shoulders were hunched, necks erect, eyes trained wide and grim on their broodfather in the center.

Samia landed against the edge; rock crumbled from her weight, plopping quietly to the ground below. The nearest nether-drakes glanced at her, but were quick to look away. The dragon folded in her wings and nearly winced at the static energy coming from the other dragons. It was bearable, but annoying; her fins fell flat against her neck.

She shifted into her human form; her dragon form was too large to maneuver through the group. The hair against her skin rose with the static.

Samia was tempted to be annoyed, but she couldn’t blame the nether-drakes for their frustration, their taut anger -… especially now that she set her eyes on Neltharaku, who was curled in the center.

The great nether-dragon’s glow was dim against his ethereal body; his blue-green, scaleless skin was ashen. The nether running in the thin veins beneath pulsed only just, and his sides heaved with a great, shuddering effort. Silver blood leaked from his pointed nose and from his open mouth; his eyes remained half-closed, the gaze within as vacant as it had been when Samia and Rexxar had stumbled upon him. His usual scent – that of dry energy, of the crackling of ozone – was faint.

Samia shook her head. She made her way forward. Crouching beside the broodfather was Rexxar; his bare back was to Samia, but she could see his large, clunky hands, with a surprising gentleness, holding up Neltharaku’s ankle where the poison had come through. Beside him sat his large brown bear. Blood not her own crusted along her fur.

“He is not doing as well as I would have hoped,” Rexxar said without turning his head to look at her. The half-orc shook his head; the ends of his furred wolf’s head helm shook with the movement. “They used a powerful poison.”

Samia went to his side and, keeping her face expressionless, she glanced down. The gash along the nether-dragon’s ankle was innocently shallow – a mere cut along his jelly-like blue skin.

But surrounding the edges was an ugly neon green – and where it seeped, the flesh beneath had bubbled.

Samia pursed her lips. “Your counter-venom isn’t working?”

“If he was bitten by a snake, it would be. This is no snake’s venom. Deathweed, I would guess. Maiden’s Anguish is also a possibility.”

“A snake in black leather,” she mumbled. Rexxar glanced up at her. “And you can do nothing for him, then?” Samia’s voice was flat.

“I’m trying my hardest, Samia.”

She nodded once. Neltharaku breathed out hard; his lungs sounded wet, as if they shook inside his chest. Behind her, the crackling of the nether-drakes’ intensified.

The half-orc rolled his shoulders back, and his large bow clinked and clacked against its matching tan quiver. “I’ve given him another elixir. It may be of some better use than the anti-venom – for now.” He gently lay down Neltharaku’s ankle and stood with a low, deep sigh.

“The drakes are doing well,” Samia said quietly.

“Good.”

The half-orc turned to her. The bear moved with him. He gave a quick, studying glance around at the nether-drakes, who stood as still as living guardians, before looking back at Samia. “They’re angry.”

“Very. But so am I.”

They spoke low. Rexxar nodded. He squinted at her.

“The elixir will hold off the poison for now. We have time to speak more – if you have time to speak more.”

Samia gestured her head to their right. “Elsewhere.” She glanced up at the nether-drakes who stood at their father’s side. “Stand guard.”

“There’s little else to do but that,” the nether-drake snapped. Samia ground her teeth, but said nothing. She walked to the side of the ledge and jumped down. Rexxar and the bear followed.

Samia brushed at the dried scab across her nose in a cursory movement, nodded, then moved off a bit to the side where the nether-drakes couldn’t hear.

“This ‘Wrathion’,” Rexxar began from behind her, “he is not from your brood.” His footfalls were surprisingly light – as light as any rogue’s despite his size. Misha’s claws, however, dragged across the rock ground.

Samia shook her head. She continued to walk a pace or two more before stopping and turning to face the hunter. “No. A last survivor from my grandfather’s madness on Azeroth. He is not from here.”

Rexxar made a small humming sound in the back of his throat. They had not spoken much about Wrathion before the discovery of Neltharaku had disrupted them.

“And a child.”

Samia huffed. She rolled back her shoulders and kept her claws crossed against her upper arms; the stab wound in her back burned where it simmered right below her ribs. She ignored it again. “A child,” she confirmed. “No older than the whelps playing.”

Rexxar squinted back at the cave; just beyond, halfway hidden, was the black dragon brood. “Mm.” He stared for a moment longer. “I don’t understand his reasons to kill you.”

The dragon shook her head. A kaliri called from above, shrieking at some unseen prey. “To eliminate the corrupted.” Samia sighed. It was, at least, what the blood elf – the very first assassin, however long ago that had been - had said upon his capture. “I haven’t heard the voices of my old Masters in years. My younger brothers and sisters were born without them, or otherwise have forgotten they ever heard them. Corrupted! The whelp grasps at strings. It must be for some power struggle, some need to be the leader. I don’t know what else it could be.”

Rexxar chuckled, a deep, rumbling thing. “The Baron only ever seemed perpetually annoyed. I hope that is not a symbol of insanity.”

A small smile flicked at the corners of Samia’s lips. “No. I don’t think so.” Her smile fell at the thought of her father. “This should not have happened.”

The half-orc looked back at her. The bear grumbled and sat on her haunches as she began to lick the blood from her claws. “The attack?”

Samia nodded.

Rexxar frowned thoughtfully. “You are worried for him.”

Samia tapped her claws against her arms. She looked out to the valley. Far to her left was the Circle of Blood. The dragon stared at it; she did not answer immediately.

“He took two of my strongest siblings with him,” Samia murmured, “including himself to kill a murderous child. A whelp no bigger than Alacian. He should have returned by now – but instead we receive an assault from the child my father went to kill.” The dragon turned her head away from the Circle of Blood, where shadowing above it were the haunted spikes forever stained with the blood of her family that had rotted against them. Her throat felt dry. “Of course I’m worried for him.”

“Then so am I,” Rexxar said. The bear made a low, rumbling whining sound.

Samia smiled, but it was without humor, and did not reach her eyes. “I’m still only surprised at your… lack of surprise.” Rexxar tilted his head at her. “For the ‘Baron’ being a dragon.”

Rexxar chuckled again. “As I said – your father gave away too many clues. I had guessed some time before -… but I admit I was amused by Sablemane’s secretive antics when in my presence. I decided to keep it to myself.”

Samia snorted. Another smile threatened her face, but her thoughts soon turned foul again as she caught sight of one of her siblings trying to stand and collapsing back down into the dirt.

“His name’s Sabellian.” Her yellow eyes locked on Rexxar. “Not Sablemane.”

“Sabellian.” Rexxar nodded to himself. “I’ll have to get used to that.”

Samia looked back at her siblings and watched the whelps play for a moment.

The dragon growled. A whelp had sent the rogues to kill them. A whelp was no doubt keeping her father away. A whelp was endangering her family – a whelp of their own kind, a whelp that was testing her promise to her father to protect the brood in his absence, a promise she had come close to failing last night.

“What do you plan to do?”

Rexxar’s voice snatched her back before her anger could overtake her. She sighed.

“I don’t know. Leave to go after him, and the brood’s defenseless. Stay, and hope my father returns, as well as Nasandria and Talsian, while I twiddle my thumbs.” She flinched as a sudden pang of pain pulsed in the wound at her back and she unlatched her stiffly crossed arms to place a hand at the injury.

Rexxar squinted. “You’re overworking yourself.”

“I’m fine.” She took her hand from her wound; blood stuck to her black gloves. “There’s one thing I can do here, however.” Samia nodded her head back to the cave, indicating that they should walk back. Rexxar understood the silent signal, and together they made their way back to where Neltharaku lay, once again in earshot.

“Some of the assassins escaped,” Samia said as they neared the cave. “They’ll be back. I know they will.” She stopped and turned on her heel to face Rexxar. One of the hatchlings came leaping up to her, but she shooed her away without looking at her. “The least I can do is kill them.”

“I’ll be glad to help.”

Samia smiled. “Good. You know the arakkoa’s forest better than I do.”

“The birds are vicious. With any luck, the rogues might be food already.”

The dragon sighed. “Doubtful. They were too skilled.” Without waiting for an answer she turned to the brood abruptly, where they still lay in a heap. “Thalarian!”

The drake had been about to grab another of the rogues and he jumped up, startled. He nearly tripped over himself despite sitting down. Samia hesitated. Maybe she should ask someone else -

“Yes? Yes!” Thalarian yelped, then bounded over to her. He had a slight limp. She sighed. Too late.

“You’re aware of how the rest of the rogues disappeared?”

“Yes.” He sat in front of her. “Why?”

“You are going to take yourself, Rexxar, Zynthian and Ylaria and go into the forests above. I’m too large. You’ll have to be stealthy.”

Thalarian blinked.

“When you find the rogues, you’re going to kill each and every one of them. If any try to run, track them down again and kill them. If they beg for mercy, kill them.”

The drake made a pleased humming sound. “It would be my honor!”

Samia smiled, but like her last, it did not reach the rest of her face. “Good. Go. Now.”

Thalarian went to turn, but a thought occurred to the elder dragon. “Wait.” Samia looked at Rexxar. “Their gems. The Black Prince is connected to them. They might be on their heads – the blood elf who killed Ryxia’s was.”

The half-orc nodded in understanding. “Destroy them.”

Rexxar was always quick to understand. Samia’s false smile turned true – and feral. “Please. Except for one. Maybe it might come in use.”

“I -”

A great, hissing groaning came from above. Samia looked up.

Neltharaku was struggling to his feet. His nether-drakes rushed forward, but the dragon snarled and snapped his teeth, waving them off. The air buzzed with energy. Lightning coursed against his blue-green body. His maw was curled back in a pained but vicious snarl.

“Samia,” he hissed, his voice wet and strained. He took a deep breath, and it sounded as if the lungs inside were shaking, filled with fluid. Silver blood dripped from his mouth. He looked down at her, and his dim, agonized eyes locked on her. “F-four of my own br-brood are dead, now. Take two others to kill these rogues.” He paused to breathe; he lurched forward but caught himself. He growled, took a deep breath, and continued. “I-I have had enough. The Ne-netherwing will be fodder for this struggle no longer.” Another wet hiss escaped his throat. “They will he-help kill these assassins. And I will push through.” His dim eyes grew sharp suddenly. The energy around him whined and snapped. “And when I do, if you d-do not go after the Black Prince, I w-will go myself.”

—-

Anduin Wrynn sighed.

Wrathion sat across from him, picking at the dirt underneath his sharpened claws. His head was bowed and his turban lopsided, in danger of completely falling off of his head. The Prince gave no indication of fixing it; he gave no indication of speaking anymore, either.

I guess we’ll find out. Wrathion’s false, forced smile.

Anduin watched the dragon now with open worry. Wrathion’s shoulders and back were slouched. Any evidence of the great, egotistical Black Prince was gone, only replaced by this miserable creature who evaded Anduin’s eyes.

The prince rubbed at his eyes with his right hand and ignored the beating pain in his left -… as well as the pain in his back and in his leg. Exhaustion prickled at the corner of his eyes and in the tilt of his frown. He rubbed at his eyes again. It didn’t brush away. Frustrated with himself, he dropped his hand. Wrathion still hadn’t moved; his red eyes were trained on his claws.

Maybe he should change the subject. Anduin shifted once, the gryphon blanket underneath him rustling. Surely he was happy that Wrathion had trusted him enough to open up without the influence of some demonic force-… but nothing Anduin had said was working. Wrathion’s glum silence was evidence enough for that.

He felt unequivocally useless. He wanted nothing more than to reach forward and simply embrace the Black Prince, but Anduin figured Wrathion wouldn’t want to be coddled like that.

The prince rubbed at the leaf bandages Ella had wrapped around the gash across his arm as he watched Wrathion’s chest rise and fall. In the quiet tent, the sounds outside – quiet themselves, but amplified in the princes’ silence – were muffled through the cloth. The gryphons chortled. Metal boots clanged back and forth. A fire crackled, faint – but all Anduin could focus on was Wrathion’s breaths.

It was clear that Anduin could no longer say anything about Sabellian. The blond knew enough about body language to know that Wrathion’s hunched, slouched shoulders, which nearly shielded, blocked out, his body, were a clear signal that the conversation was over, and that the dragon no longer wished to speak about it-… but a more stubborn part of Anduin goaded at his mind, telling him to press on, to make Wrathion see sense.

Anduin withheld another sigh. That would do nothing but to make Wrathion angry, or make him even more distant than he was now. He struggled to quiet that part of himself, but he managed it.

A change of conversation was needed.

The prince cleared his throat. It was awkwardly loud. Wrathion didn’t move. A flick of dried blood fell from one of the dragon’s claws as Wrathion ran his thumb underneath it.

“I forgot to thank you,” Anduin said. Wrathion stopped moving his thumb across his nails, but did not look up. “For saving me.”

Wrathion flicked his eyes up at Anduin, looking through his bangs. He squinted.

Anduin smiled at him. “No doubt you only wanted Sabellian, though,” he teased. Lapsing into the familiar taunting tone was easy and comfortable.

Wrathion stared for a moment - … and then a slow smile crept up the dragon’s face. At once, the suffocating, tense air broke. Anduin felt his shoulders fall; he hadn’t even realized they were tense.

“You were an added bonus,” Wrathion said. The strain, the stuttering, hesitating doubt in his voice, was gone, as if it had not even been there.

Anduin rolled his eyes, but his smile remained.

“A very good bonus.” Wrathion added.

“Thanks.”

The dragon’s smile widened. His sharp teeth showed through his parted lips. “It was the very least I could do.” Wrathion’s grin curled back into a sharp smirk. Anduin was relieved to see that on his face, at least.

The Black Prince straightened out his shoulders, then rolled them back. He fixed his slipping turban, though his bangs still jut out from underneath, messy. His movements were quick, as if he was eager to get rid of the pitiful look he’d just had.

“Because as… loath as I am to admit it, you did save me, as well,” Wrathion drawled. Anduin raised a brow at him.

“Loath to admit it? You seemed very relieved when I saved you, you know.”

“Maybe.” Wrathion’s smirk was wide, now. He smoothed back his bangs with his claws and dropped his hand in one quick movement. “But! I digress. I did owe you. So here we are.”

“Yes. You did,” Anduin said. Wrathion rolled his eyes. Anduin smiled. “But thank you – debt or not.”

“It was my pleasure, Anduin Wrynn.” He motioned with his hand to opening of the tent. “Besides. I would absolutely hate for King Varian and his Alliance to lose their precious prince for… how many times has it been now? Three? Four?”

Anduin’s smile fell. “Very funny.”

Wrathion grinned. “And twice by black dragons! Perhaps I’ll make the third.”

“Oh. So you plan to kidnap me, too?”

“It’s crossed my mind before.” Wrathion’s grinning smirk was teasing.

“I don’t think my Father would like that very much.”

“Mm. Maybe not.” Wrathion leaned forward. “But your father doesn’t seem to like me very much, already.”

Anduin laughed quietly. “I’m not surprised.” He leaned forward as well. Wrathion watched him with open amusement. “But I think kidnapping his only son would make him like you less.”

“It’s a possibility.” Wrathion sighed with great exaggeration. “I suppose I’ll have to live with it.” He reached out and pat the side of Anduin’s face once, then twice, briskly. “Though it may break my neutrality.”

Anduin smiled. “You’re in an Alliance camp, saving the Alliance’s prince. You’re swaying to one side already.”

Wrathion scoffed. He dropped his hand from Anduin’s face, but his claws, as if on accident, trailed against the edge of Anduin’s shoulder before he withdrew his hand. “Hardly. I’m only protecting a piece in my grand design I’ll need in the upcoming events to follow… after this fiasco is taken care of, of course.”

“I thought you said I was just a bonus from capturing Sabellian. Now I’m a thing of yours to be protected? Very interesting.”

Wrathion stared. He frowned.

Anduin smile widened. He loved outsmarting the dragon; it was very satisfying.

“Yes, well. That too,” Wrathion mumbled. Anduin laughed again.

“Prince Anduin!” The lilting, heavily accented voice made both the princes jolt, despite it being muffled beyond the cloth tent. Anduin looked over. It was Ella’s voice. “I am to be coming in now. Shoo away the little dragon friend please!”

“Little?” Wrathion murmured, glaring at the flap. “Why does everyone call me little? I’m not little.”

“To her, you are,” Anduin said lowly, low enough where Ella couldn’t hear. He rose his voice. “Can you give us a couple more minutes, please? My arm is doing fine.” It was a lie, but a confidently-given one. His whole left arm was prickling with the sharp pain of both the fel energy and the cut itself – but talking to Wrathion had, at least, distracted him from it.

There was a long pause. Then a sigh. “Alright. A couple more minutes.”

The two waited a single, quiet moment before both of their heads, in unison, turned back to one another.

“All other chatter aside, dear prince – I am rather glad you are… relatively unharmed.”

“Thank you. So am I. But…” Wrathion raised a brow as Anduin trailed off. The blond smiled suddenly. “I did get off a lot better than you did with Sabellian.”

“A very unfair predicament.”

Anduin scoffed, but continued to smile. “So would have liked me to have been hurt more?” His tone was not malicious.

Wrathion’s smile was smug. “No. I would never dream of it. Though didn’t you hear my brother? Shed blood builds character.” He reached out with his good hand and brushed it against the leafy gauze around Anduin’s left arm; the dragon’s touch was so light Anduin didn’t even feel it through the shaman’s bandage. “But I forget myself. I would never wish for the prince of Stormwind to be bloody.”

Anduin rose a brow. “Mhm.” He went to grab Wrathion’s hand, to brush it away from his arm, when Wrathion snatched out and caught Anduin’s wrist.

The hold was tight. Anduin gave the dragon a quick glare, blond, thin eyebrows sloping down.

Wrathion only smiled sweetly.

“I planned to keep my hand there,” Wrathion admonished. “It’s unwise to interfere with my plans, Anduin Wrynn.”

Anduin would have run his hand over his own face if Wrathion hadn’t been holding it by the wrist. “You’re agonizing, sometimes.”

Wrathion jerked Anduin’s hand back towards him so powerfully that it made Anduin’s whole torso lurch forward at the dragon.Without letting go of Anduin’s wrist, Wrathion leaned forward – just the slightest amount – and the two princes’ lips met. Wrathion’s mouth was hot against Anduin’s.

Anduin was almost too startled to return the kiss, but when he came to, mind clearing, he returned it willingly – but after a quick handful of seconds – too quick, a tiny part of Anduin complained – Wrathion pulled back. He smirked with great self-satisfaction, eyes alight.

“Do you still find me agonizing?” Wrathion prodded with a low voice.

“Yes. Always.”

Wrathion grinned.

“The dragon’s alone with him?”

Varian.

Both princes’ smiles fell into alarmed looks as they snapped their heads back to the opening of the tent. Wrathion tightened his grip on Anduin’s wrist. Anduin cleared his throat, trying to make him let go with the small signal. Either the Black Prince understood and ignored it, or didn’t understand and still ignored it.

The next voice was Ella’s. “Yes, but -”

“Anduin! Are you alright?” Varian asked. He must have been standing right next to the entrance of the tent, for his voice was loud and close.

Wrathion chuckled underneath his breath. Anduin tried to hit his shoulder with a faint smack of his hand, but only managed to smack his fingers against him – Wrathion still held onto his wrist and didn’t seem to want to let go anytime soon.

“Yes, father. I’m fine. We’re just talking.”

“Talking.”

Anduin could practically hear the self-restrain in Varian’s voice – no doubt the king wanted to come in. Had Ella told him that Anduin wished to be alone with the Black Prince? At any rate, Anduin was proud of his father for not simply barging inside.

“Yes.” Anduin rubbed at the corner of his mouth. Wrathion smirked.

There was a long pause. Then a loud, grumbling sigh.

“You need to be healed, Anduin. You can speak to the Black Prince some other time.”

“It can wait. Honestly, Father, I’m fi -”

“No, it can’t. As soon as you’re healed, we’re going.”

Anduin sat up in alarm. His burnt back protested with a crackling of taut pain against his skin, even with the cooling salve Ella had placed there.

“’We?’” He called out, frowning.

“’We.’”

Anduin stared at the close opening. He couldn’t leave Wrathion. Not now! If Varian dragged him back to Lion’s Landing, there was no doubt in the prince’s mind that Varian wouldn’t let him lave again for some time.

Fueled by his sudden alarm, Anduin got to his feet-… or at least tried to. His rigid right leg seared with pain as he moved forward, and he grimaced.

Wrathion let go of his wrist. Thankful, Anduin grabbed onto the dragon’s shoulder for leverage and, shaking, pushed himself up. Wrathion reached out with his good hand and snatched onto Anduin’s waist and with the Black Prince’s extra strength, Anduin could straighten himself out.

He looked around for the makeshift cane he’d ripped off from a loose piece of bark from the ruined kypari tree after Wrathion had left him there to deal with Sabellian. It was on the other side of the tent. Anduin looked at it, then at Wrathion silently.

The dragon sighed theatrically, grabbed the slim piece of sturdy wood, and handed it to Anduin. His red eyes lost their humor and amusement; as Anduin grabbed the cane, Wrathion began to look at him quietly, studying. Anduin didn’t have time to think about the look. He needed to speak to his father.

He limped over to the opening and pulled it back. The harsh red sunlight burst against his eyes, and he flinched slightly; he squinted until a large shadow moved in front of him and blocked out the afternoon sun – King Varian.

The king’s armor was dotted with black scorch marks and mud – as well as the king’s scarred countenance. It looked as if Varian had tried to hurriedly rub the dirt off, but only succeeded in spreading it more across his face. It would have made Anduin smile if he wasn’t more worried about the possibility of having to leave with him.

“Father, I have to stay here,” Anduin started, just as Varian began to open his mouth. Ella watched off to the side with her arms crossed. Behind the king, some yards away, slept the gryphons. The smell of cooking venison was thick. Some of the soldiers were laughing with each other by the fire, but paid the king and his son no heed.

Varian sighed. He sounded tired – and as if he’d been expecting this.

“I’m sure Wrathion can take care of himself.”

Anduin’s frown deepened. He moved out from the tent; the flap closed behind him. “That isn’t the point. He can take care of himself, but I need to be with him right now. He -”

“Anduin. Son. You can’t stay. You’ve gotten in enough trouble as is with the dragon. You were taken right out from Lion’s Landing and nearly lost your arm -”

“My arm’s fine.”

Varian huffed. “It doesn’t look it.”

Anduin locked his jaw. “My arm hardly matters. I did get in danger, but I’m out of it now -… thanks to you and Wrathion.” He stressed the dragon’s name, lest the king forget that the Black Prince had indeed helped and was worthy of trust. Varian grumbled under his breath incoherently. “I’m fine. I won’t get into any more trouble. You have my word.”

Varian squinted. “I trust you and your word, Anduin – but not the dragon’s. I can’t rely on him to keep you out of harm’s way.”

Anduin bristled. Varian quickly put a hand up to interrupt his frustrated son. “I have no doubt he didn’t want you to be harmed at Lion’s Landing, Anduin – or to be kidnapped. But it happened. And I can’t allow -”

“You were at Lion’s Landing too, Father,” Anduin said. “That didn’t stop Sabellian from taking us.”

Varian paused. His hand was still up in the air. Slowly, he lowered it. As always, out of habit, it went to the hilt of Shalamayne.

“All the same. You’ll be coming back to Lion’s Landing with me. Let the dragon prince do his business.”

“No.” Anduin drew himself up. He felt like he was back at Lion’s Landing already – how many days ago had it been since he’d convinced Varian to let Wrathion to stay to be healed? This almost felt like the same argument. Anduin couldn’t hide his overwhelming frustration with it. His father had to understand. He couldn’t just abandon the dragon. “I’m sorry. But I must stay here.”

Varian ran a hand over his face, then pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes scrunched closed. “And people complain over my stubbornness,” the king mumbled under his breath, almost too low for Anduin to hear.

“Why is it so important I go back to Lion’s Landing? I explored Pandaria on my own for two months and I came out unharmed. And besides, Father, the dragon who kidnapped me is in chains,” Anduin continued. He had to make his point – somehow.

The king dropped his hand and opened his eyes in one quick movement. Varian worked his jaw back and forth. He stared at his son, and Anduin stared back.

Finally, after a moment of silence between the two, Varian made an aggravated, closed-mouth sigh in the back of his throat, exhaling through his nose. He crossed his arms. For a brief, hopeful moment, Anduin thought he was about to give in – when his father’s expression changed just subtly enough for Anduin to know that it was not the case. The king’s brown eyes grew taut and serious around their corners, and his ever-frowning face a bit tugged down with – worry?

Anduin squinted.

“Father.” Anduin’s voice was low. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

“Something I hoped to tell you last night before this happened.” Varian rubbed at his face again. More of the dirt smeared. “I need you back at Lion’s Landing to keep an eye on you, Anduin. I need to protect you, now most of all.” He paused. His eyes glanced around, but at nothing in particular, as if he was searching for something in his own head. Varian nodded to himself, then focused his eyes back on Anduin. “We have word from the Shrine of Seven Stars that Garrosh has begun to rip up the Vale. The goblins are working fast. While I speak the lake might already be gone.”

Anduin stared. His face began to go paler than it already was.

“He – he’s ripping up the Vale?” The prince’s chest felt as hollow as his voice sounded. His whole body felt numb.

“He’s searching for something. Whatever it is, we don’t know – yet. But we’ll find out.” Varian put a hand on Anduin’s shoulder. “The Horde is getting ready for their final assault, Anduin. You need to be by my side for this.”

“I -” Anduin felt like his head had been doused in cold water. All of his thoughts felt like they’d frozen his place.

Garrosh was digging up the Vale. The waters.

A flicker of anger bit at Anduin’s chest. It broke the hollowness there within.

Anduin swallowed hard. His eyes went dark. The prince took a deep breath. He struggled to calm himself.

“How much has he destroyed?” Anduin asked. His voice shook slightly with his barely-concealed anger.

“I don’t know.”

Anduin nodded once. He looked away from Varian to study Sik’vess to their left. Beyond the camp he could just make out the still form of Sabellian and the black dots of the Blacktalons that worked around him ants. The scene made the anger in Anduin grow even larger.

The prince ran a hand down his face – just like Varian had done moments before. He took another deep breath.

Now he was unsure of what to do.

He needed to stay with Wrathion, but he also needed to see the Vale. He needed to be there for the Black Prince if any more trouble arose, but he needed to also be with his father and the Alliance if things were shaping up to be the end of this war with Garrosh.

Anduin brushed back his bangs. He watched the smoke from Sabellian’s mouth plume up to the grey-blue sky. He was thankful for his father’s sudden silence.

The flap of the tent opened with a gentle swish of cloth. Anduin, startled, glanced back.

Wrathion slipped through the opening to come around to the side of both the king and the prince of Stormwind. He smiled, but it was not the smile he’d used in their previous conversation – this was the mysterious Black Prince’s smile, smug and all-knowing, not Wrathion’s, wide and amused.

“I’m sorry to interrupt – but I couldn’t help but overhear.” Wrathion directed his disarming smile to Varian, who harrumphed.

“I was talking to my son. Alone.”

“Of course. I only wished to share my advice on the subject.”

Anduin watched Wrathion suspiciously.

“You should go home, Anduin Wrynn. Your dear father is right – I will do just fine by myself.”

What?

Anduin blinked hard. Had he heard right? “You can’t be serious.”

“Yes.” Wrathion’s face was unreadable behind that mask of the smarmy Black Prince. The cool smile was still on his face. The anger about the news from Garrosh, and from seeing Sabellian in the distance, began to sizzle deeper into Anduin’s chest. His right leg began to cramp from the sudden stress.

“Wrathion -”

“Anduin, I think he made himself pretty clear.”

Anduin ignored his father. Of course the one time Varian wasn’t outright rude to Wrathion while in his son’s presence was the time when Wrathion’s words helped Varian’s case. He looked at Wrathion hard.

“Can we talk? Alone?”

“Very well,” Wrathion sighed. He glanced at Varian. “A moment, King Wrynn.”

Varian shook his head. Without waiting for the king to say anything, Anduin swept back into the tent.

He whirled around to face Wrathion as the dragon followed him inside. His leg and back, the burnt skin there growing taut with every movement Anduin made, protested with a hiss of pain.

“What are you doing?”

Wrathion’s smile fell. “Lower your voice, prince.”

Anduin glared. “What are you doing?” He repeated with more demand.

Wrathion walked closer until they were a mere two feet from one another. The rough end of the makeshift cane prickled at Anduin’s palm as the blond leaned hard against it.

“I overheard about the Vale,” Wrathion murmured. Anduin swallowed. “I had heard that Garrosh had sent archaeologists there, yet -”

“You knew?”

Wrathion hesitated. “Only recently -… though my reports were obviously late in reaching me. I knew they were going there. I did not know that Garrosh had begun to dig.”

Anduin looked away. His head was hammering. He rubbed at his face.

“You should go with your father, Anduin Wrynn. I know how much the Vale means to you. Dealing with my problems I can easily take care of myself should be the least of your worries, dear prince.”

Anduin looked up. Wrathion watched him quietly.

“It does mean a lot to me. The Vale, I mean.” He’d spent his first two months on Pandaria looking for it, pleading for the Celestials to open the Gates. He’d only just began to study the waters when the Divine Bell had occurred; he wanted to do so much more! A place of beauty and peace like that -… it was painful to think of what the goblins and other archaeologists sent by the Warchief were doing to it. “But this does too.” He weakly gestured around them – at Wrathion, the tent, and vaguely to where he remembered Sabellian being in regards to their location. “I can’t just leave you to do this by yourself.”

Wrathion grinned. It wasn’t the reaction Anduin had expected. “I will be just fine. Honestly, Anduin Wrynn. I have done things by myself before.”

Anduin raised a brow. “Right. Like when you thought eating a dead mogu’s heart was a good idea?”

“It was a good idea!” Wrathion huffed. “If you had seen what I did – for however short it was – you would have thought it was a good idea, as well.”

“I thought you said you didn’t remember any of it.”

Wrathion paused. He glared. “That’s hardly the point. Now stop being stubborn. Like I said, Prince Anduin, I will be fine on my own. And -” He raised the last word as Anduin began to open his mouth to argue. “Don’t worry! I will take your advice to heart – if I find it applicable, of course. As always, you’ve been useful to me.”

Anduin frowned. He could still be useful.

But Wrathion did have a point. Anduin had told Wrathion what he thought the right thing to do with Sabellian was – what else could he really… do, anyway? Wrathion was no longer in danger. He did not need rescuing – guidance, perhaps, but not a worried blond prince to hover over his shoulder.

The realization was vaguely bitter in his throat, but Anduin swallowed it.

“I… are you sure?” The anger, the offensive pose he’d held, began to melt down. Now his frustration at Garrosh was overshadowed with his hesitation for leaving – a hollow twisting in his chest.

Wrathion gave him a look. “You’re too soft, Anduin Wrynn.”

Anduin glared again. What did that have to do with anything? Before he could even open his mouth to answer, however, Wrathion continued.

“When will you ever put yourself above others?” Wrathion sighed with heavy drama. “I don’t believe even the great Prince of Stormwind can save everyone at once.”

Instantly Anduin thought about the battle at Lion’s Landing – the one that Left and he had escaped. He had chosen Wrathion over his own citizens, then – though he had wished to save both.

It was nearly the same, now.

But Wrathion was healthy, and safe. Sabellian, despite it making Anduin uncomfortable, was in chains.

Maybe he should go with his Father – as long as he could go to the Vale and see this destruction for himself.

Anduin smiled. It wasn’t a happy one. “I guess never,” he said, referring to putting himself above others. It seemed wrong to think that way.

“I expect nothing less,” Wrathion grinned -… but Anduin was quick to note it did not reach his eyes. “You are the Prince of Stormwind. Go with your king and coddle your citizens. I am perfectly fine. Don’t I look it?”

“Somewhat.”

“Oh, very funny.”

Anduin shifted his weight. His injuries were paining him, wailing at him.

“If you’re sure. I’ll… I’ll go,” he said, hesitating in every word.

He didn’t want to – not at all – but-…

Wrathion’s grin fell. He studied Anduin. For a moment Anduin had thought that he’d said the wrong thing, but then the Black Prince’s eyes lit up and his smile shot back up his face.

“Oh! I have an idea. I’ll give you a gift.”

“A gift?” Anduin eyed him suspiciously. “What kind of gift?”

Wrathion only widened his smile. All of his sharp teeth flashed against his face.

“Don’t look at me with such distrust, Anduin Wrynn! Here. Give me your hand.”

Anduin squinted at him. Wrathion reached out with his hand, palm up, and made a flicking, beckoning motion with his fingers.

Sighing, the blond extended his wrapped arm. Wrathion took it with a surprising gentleness.

“What are you doing?”

Wrathion lifted his pointer finger. “I just need a little.”

“A little wh -”

Wrathion flicked the claw of his raised finger against Anduin’s palm. The blond jumped.

“Ouch!”

“Oh, please. That didn’t hurt.” Wrathion watched the blood well up against Anduin’s pale skin, then smeared his finger against it. He let go of Anduin’s arm. His eyes were trained on the blood against his hand.

“This will take just a moment.”

Anduin stared with confusion. He brought his hand back to his chest. The cut had been thin; not much more blood dripped from his palm, but the sting still hurt.

“You could have told me what you were doing, first,” the blond mumbled. Wrathion nicked a claw against his own palm. Blood plumed from the shallow cut. The dragon bent his pointer finger and smeared Anduin’s blood there with his own.

The dragon smirked and closed his eyes, curling his bloodied hand together into a loose fist.

“Apologies,” the Black Prince said, but he didn’t sound sorry.

A glow of red began to hum around Wrathion’s fist. Anduin watched; his annoyance was quickly overshadowed by curiosity.

Was Wrathion doing what Anduin thought he was doing?

The glow intensified. Wisps of sharp carmine smoke and light curled out from the grooves of the dragon’s fingers.

Anduin glanced up at Wrathion’s face. The Black Prince had his head bowed, and his eyes were scrunched closed with concentration; his lips were skewered back in a small scowl. In all honesty, the blond found himself more fascinated with the look on the dragon’s face than what the dragon was actually doing.

After a long, quiet moment, the red dimmed. Wrathion opened his eyes. He grinned wide.

“I present my gift,” the Black Prince announced, and he opened his fist to reveal a small, shiny red gem. Anduin stared at it.

“It’s like the ones your Agents wear,” he said, tilting his head forward to get a better look. He was oddly touched. “You… made that with my blood?” He didn’t see the smear of red that Wrathion had taken from his dripping palm against the dragon’s skin.

“Yes. And my own magic. I am very skilled.”

Anduin took the gem from Wrathion’s offering hand. He rotated it around on his fingers. It was as fine a jewel as any he had seen in Stormwind lacing the golden necklaces of the lords and ladies – perhaps even finer.

“I have to admit… I don’t know how you do this.”

Wrathion rolled his shoulders back. He made a pleased noise in the back of his throat. “Gems are made from what, Prince Anduin?”

“The earth – oh.” Anduin looked up at Wrathion. “Nevermind. I understand.”

Wrathion’s smile was smug.

“But it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“That isn’t the best part!” Wrathion gestured to the jewel. “We can speak through that.”

“What?”

“There is a… cruder version of the spell I often give to my champions to speak with them. My Agents, however, are employed with these. I can speak to them through their mind. How do you think Left and I kept in contact?”

Anduin hesitated. “… Wait. Can’t you see through these?”

“I can.”

Anduin squinted at him. Wrathion rolled his eyes.

“There’s nothing to fear, dear Prince. I would never think of spying on you.”

“I’m sure.” Anduin raised a brow.

Wrathion grinned. “Perhaps this will calm your nerves. It is my gift to you, Prince Anduin.”

Anduin curled his fingers around the gem; it was smooth and warm against his skin. “Thank you. It does.”

“Now! Let’s speak with your worrying Father. No doubt he is ready to charge in here and snatch you from another terrible black dragon.”

Anduin laughed under his breath. They went back to the entrance of the tent again, together.

—-

The pain was unbearable.

Sabellian studied the darkness behind his eyelids while he struggled to ignore the fierce agony that pulsed throughout his entire body. The chains buzzed idly against his scales; those did not hurt as much as the two harpoons lodged into his shoulder and flank. That pain was ever-pulsing, deep, and poisonous. His whole side felt aflame with it; he could even feel his heart beat there, hot and steady. The dragon’s burning red eyes were dulled with the agony.

Sabellian sighed hard. Even with the small movement, the chains around his neck crackled, and a small flick of electricity coursed against his scales. Sabellian hissed; he withheld a wince, lest he move again and be shocked for the second time.

As if he could even move on his own. The pain was too crippling. No doubt the harpoons had lodged into his very bones – or at least very deep into the flesh. He had been too close to the harpoon guns, and their aim had been straight and their power too great – he’d been shot at like a hunter’s mark.

The thought made him angry. Sabellian hissed again, quiet enough where his head didn’t move. He’d been a fool. An idiot. He’d seen the Black Prince dangled there and had been too crazed by the battle and too desperate to get his hands on Wrathion that he’d stupidly taken the bait.

And now he was tied up like some carcass at a butcher’s for the mistake.

A growl, low, grumbled from his throat. He could smell the Prince’s little ants milling around him; they’d been pulling off the chains. Each one sheared off was another ripple of agony – for each movement of the chains clattering against his scales shot off their electricity that only zapped back down into his body. Sabellian wished they’d just get on with it, already – they were taking too long and being too cautious. Better to rip the chains off all at once and the agony come quick than make this already-degrading situation even worse for him.

Sabellian opened one of his eyes. The sun was bright against the dusky sky. He glanced at the ruins of Sik’vess, smoking, then at the Alliance camp behind it, and then at the nearest Agents – a blood elf and a human. They were gesturing at his wings and talking in low voices. Sabellian snorted. They’d peeled much of the chains from his tail, his back legs, and his front legs – only leaving those essential to having him tied - and now only the chains on his neck and wings remained. If he had felt strong enough, he’d have tried to get to his feet and escape by now -… but he’d wasted the rest of his energy on trying to tear the Black Prince’s head off.

Another growl rumbled from his throat. His chest lit with the fresh anger.

The moment my champions finish the job I set out to accomplish two years ago by killing the rest of your brood I will have all the apology I ever asked for.

His claws twitched on their own accord.

Wrathion had sent Agents to kill his own family and Sabellian could do nothing but lay here chained and beaten.

He was here to protect the remainder of his family – he had never counted on his absence from them being the thing that killed them.

His claws twitched again. No. He couldn’t afford to think like that. Sabellian tried to calm himself, to calm that deep-rooted anger that was growing hot once more in his chest. He had left Samia behind for a reason; she was the strongest besides him. She could surely fight the Black Prince’s Agents back. She had to.

Sabellian tried not to think about his other children – the younger ones, those who had never seen a fight. He snarled. The anger in his chest became a bubbling hate. His eyes, dim with pain already, began to fuzz over with hatred.

How many had the little whelp sent? Five? Ten? A dozen?

How many could Samia possibly fight off on her own?

As he lay here now, helpless to do anything, was his eldest daughter being overrun? Were his younger children being gutted as Ryxia had? Were the hatchlings, as well?

His claws ground into the earth. Sabellian had tried not to think about it before, after Wrathion had left when Sabellian had erupted into his first spasm of anger, of hatred, but now, sitting here, waiting for the next slice of buzzing pain to arc across his wings, he could do nothing else.

Sabellian wanted nothing more than to break from these chains, to go to that Alliance camp, and tear Wrathion limb from limb.

He could do it now. He could. Sabellian growled. His claws twitched. He could get up and shake these chains off and go into the camp right now. All he needed was one quick surge of energy. One burst of speed. And then he could crunch down on Wrathion’s little brittle body with his teeth and tear him apart.

Kill. He needed to kill him. The hate was fierce now. The back of his head felt like it was itching.

He shot up his head and shot a plume of fire – but the chains sparked and the pain shot down through his neck. Sabellian snarled in agony and his head dropped back down. Smoke drifted from where his scales had been electrified and from his nose.

Sabellian’s eyes dilated.

Wait. No. What was he doing? The shock of pain had brought him back to clarity.

A brief flicker of panic drummed in his chest. Sabellian felt his claws twitching on their own and he forced them to stop moving.

Sabellian stared blankly at Sik’vess. He ignored the wide-eyed Blacktalon agents he’d startled with his brief burst of aggressiveness. The hatred and anger was still there, but not as fiercely -… and not as controlling.

The pain crept back up again like an unwanted friend and embraced his entire body as the numbness from his anger faded. The dragon sighed. His eyes squinted hard as he tried to ignore the agony that beat through him -

And tried to ignore what had just occurred.

His claws twitched.

—-

Alexstrasza looked up at the tower of the Wall.

To her side spanned Townlong Steppes. On her right spanned the Valley. In front of her was the tower – tall and built with careful craftsmanship, made of grey-blue stone.

She had landed a half-mile away and had taken the lift up the Wall, cautious of the possibility of scaring the Shado-pan pandaren and the two stationed Alliance humans who eyed her curiously if she had landed atop the monument in her full dragon form.

Alexstrasza walked up to the mortals guarding the tower.

In truth, she had nearly flown over this section of the Wall when she began her flight to the Isle of Thunder to the north, but she had smelled him – here, of all places. His energy was sharp and clear to her – the smell of ice and arcane was rich. She had grown familiar with it during the Cataclysm; it was unmistakable.

“What do you need?” One of the Alliance asked. She held a black crossbow with the head of a phoenix.

Alexstrasza smiled at her. “I only wish to speak to Kalecgos.”

The two humans glanced at each other wordlessly. The archer looked back at Alexstrasza.

“What message do you bring?” She asked.

“I am only here to visit and speak to him personally,” the former Dragon Aspect explained.

“Your name?”

“Alexstrasza.”

The crossbowman’s eyes went wide – as did the other human’s.

“Oh! Oh. Oh, by the Light. Of course. Please. Go inside!”

The human quickly moved out of the way and gestured to the opening of the tower behind her.

“Thank you.” Alexstrasza smiled graciously and swept inside the tower.

A large curling flight of stairs led up to the top. Alexstrasza walked up; she trailed the tips of her clawed gauntlets against the side of the stone. It was cold inside. This tower was close to the cool mountains of Kun-lai. Of course Kalecgos would choose this one.

She reached the top of the stairs. A small wooden door greeted her.

Alexstrasza pushed back the door and gently closed it behind her as she entered the room.

It was a small chamber. Nestled to the side was an unmade bed, the sheets and heavy red blanket ruffled and drooping off the side. Above it was a small opening in the smooth grey stone that overlooked Townlong; a small curling plant wrapped around the window. At the side of the bed was a small bookcase laden with leather-bound books; on some were sculpted beautiful runes, and on others, Common.

Across from the bed, on the other side of the room, was a large desk. Like the bed it was in disarray; papers were scattered, two inkwells, one missing a quill, were splayed across the table, and three books were open to random pages.

And sitting at the desk was Kalecgos – or at least, Alexstrasza assumed it was Kalecgos. She could not see his face, for it was face down on one of the books and paper with his hair fuzzed wildly against his shoulders and his arms stretched out lazily against the desk.

Alexstrasza stared.

“Greetings, Kalecgos,” she said – loud enough where it might wake him.

The other dragon’s shoulders twitched. Alexstrasza thought she had not been vocal enough until, slowly, Kalecgos arched his spine back like a cat’s. With the same hesitating slowness, he raised his head from the desk; one of the papers stuck to the side of his face.

He blinked at her stupidly, unseeing. His eyes were crusted with sleep.

Alexstrasza only smiled.

Kalecgos stared for a mere second more – then his eyes widened and he jumped up so quickly he banged one of his knees against the desk. A muffled curse growled from his closed mouth. He ripped the paper – which was still on his face – off and flung it to the side.

“Alexstrasza!” He exclaimed after he had gotten a hold of himself. “I -” He glanced around at his room and all of its messiness and cleared his throat as he looked back at her. “I’m sorry. I was not expecting you.”

“It’s quite alright, Kalecgos. I did not announce my coming arrival.”

Kalecgos came around from behind the desk. His tan and blue tunic was stained with ink – as were his hands.

“You are injured,” the blue dragon said with a frown. He motioned to the thin gash against Alexstrasza’s neck, and then at the bruise across the side of her face. “Are you alright?”

“I’m well. Please, do not worry for me.”

Kalecgos nodded. He hesitated, then, as if unsure of what else to do.

“Please – sit. I’m sure you’ve come a long way. I did not know you were in Pandaria.” Kalecgos spoke as he brushed off more books from a chair that had been hidden underneath them. He pulled it close, gestured to it with a stiff politeness, then rounded back to the desk and pulled out his own chair to face Alexstrasza’s. The former Dragon Queen sat graciously, though she would have been fine with standing. Her silk dress rustled.

“I have kept myself hidden. You know that.”

Kalecgos sat across from her. He nodded in understanding. “Yes. I know.” He fiddled with his gloves. So nervous, Alexstrasza thought. For what? Did her age still intimidate him? He had been an Aspect, as well – for however brief a time. Perhaps it was her sudden appearance.

“Kalecgos. I must ask you to relax. I am only here as a friend.”

Kalecgos blinked. “Yes. Of course.” His hands went stiff. They fell flat against his thighs. “My apologies. I must look absurd.”

“You look human.”

Kalecgos smiled. “Do I?” He glanced around his room again. “I suppose I do.”

It seemed the comment didn’t bother him judging by the small smile on his face.

“You have joined the Alliance, then?”

Kalecgos paused. His smile faded. He looked back at Alexstrasza seriously. “I suppose I have.”

Alexstrasza smiled. “I am not condoning you. It was only a question.”

Kalecgos relaxed for the second time. He rubbed at the stains against his gloves. “Yes. I have – more or less. It is here I conduct my work for them. It’s a simple job, but I do what I can.” He gestured around the tower. “I am an ambassador between the Celestials and the pandaren – the Golden Lotus, specifically - for the Alliance. From here I receive their messages – then send them out. The location is excellent. Townlong and the Isle of Thunder is to my left, and the Vale only some miles south.” He smiled. “I also work with the explorers here. Pandaria is outstanding. Such rich treasures. I have learned so much – and all I learn I send to the Jaina on the Isle, as well as the High Elves in the Shrine.”

Alexstrasza listened silently. She nodded. “You sound… happy.”

“I am.” Kalecgos smiled again. “Thank you.”

Alexstrasza studied him. Human-like, but happy. How… interesting.

Was she happy? She brushed at the bruise across her jaw. She did not feel ‘happy.’

“Might I ask how you came by those?” Kalecgos asked when Alexstrasza didn’t say anything. He nodded to her small injuries. “I don’t wish to intrude, but I cannot imagine who could have harmed you.”

Alexstrasza took her gauntlet-clad hand from his face and joined it with the other against her lap. The gold cloud serpents in her gown looked as if they were staring up at her.

For a moment, she said nothing. At one time she would have shared the information with a fellow Aspect – but they were not Aspects any longer, and the struggle between Wrathion and Sabellian was not either of their worries.

And yet she could not lie.

“A black dragon from Outland has come to Pandaria,” she said. Kalecgos’s face went slack; his smile fell. “It was he who gave me such injury. But I am without pain, now.”

“A black dragon?” Kalecgos repeated. He stared, eyes wide. “That’s impossible. But -” He frowned suddenly. His blue eyebrows scrunch downward. “From Outland?”

“I suppose the broken world was one we forgot in favor of searching our own for Neltharion’s cursed ilk.”

Kalecgos’s frown turned thoughtful. “Outstanding. I could never have guessed…” He shook his head. “No. But it makes sense. Deathwing went to Draenor before, did he not?”

“Yes. The nether-dragons there were from his eggs – warped by the breakage of the planet.”

“Ah! Yes. I remember. Such fascinating beings, the nether-dragons.” His eyes found Alexstrasza’s. “You seem rather unphased by this news – if I might point out.”

“It is no longer my duty to police such things,” Alexstrasza said. Kalecgos squinted at her.

“No. I suppose not.” Kalecgos tilted his head. His eyes were studious, questioning. “Is this black dragon a threat? He harmed you, I see. What is his name?”

“Sabellian. And no. Not yet. He was after the Black Prince.”

A quiet dawning grew up Kalecgos’s face.

“Wait a moment. When did you meet this Sabellian?”

“A mere half-day ago.”

“The pandaren along the Wall below us were gossiping about such things!” Kalecgos looked at her intently. “I thought I’d simply misheard them when they spoke of a giant lizard going over into the Dread Wastes… but I did hear right when I heard them talking about the King of Stormwind asking for a supply of harpoon guns. The place he stopped was only five miles from my tower.”

“I see. Yes. Sabellian took the Prince.”

Kalecgos blinked. “Anduin?”

“Yes.”

“Oh dear,” Kalecgos mumbled. “Do you know if he is safe?”

“I do not know.”

Kalecgos sighed. The creases of his eyes tilted with worry. “Well… I hope he is alright. I suppose with his own Father going after him, he will be.” His hands rubbed together nervously. Alexstrasza watched him. She felt nothing.

For a moment they sat in each other’s silence, until Kalecgos dropped his hands on his lap again, sighed, and looked at Alexstrasza. “Well. That’s some news. I have not met Wrathion, myself, but I hope for his safety, as well.”

“As do I.”

Kalecgos frowned at her. “Is that all you came to speak with me about, Alexstrasza? You seem… distant.”

Alexstrasza shook her head. “No. I came to ask your advice.”

Kalecgos looked taken aback. “… My advice?” He shifted in his chair; the stone scratched beneath the wood.

“Yes.”

Kalecgos sat more upright in his seat. “I will… do what I can.” Confusion tugged at the frown in his lips. Alexstrasza did not blame him. The last time they had seen each other had been in Northrend when he had come to Alexstrasza herself for advice, and she had brushed him away, too wrapped in her own thoughts to care.

“I wish to ask how you fit in with this world.”

Kalecgos stared. “I beg your pardon?”

“You have done so well molding yourself into this new age of mortals. I am unsure what to do with myself in this respect, Kalecgos. I have spoken to Yu’lon and Chi-ji, and while their words have soothed and guided me, I still find myself lost.”

Kalecgos studied her. He smiled.

“I understand how you feel. Despite how comfortable I look, I often feel lost, as well. Please, allow me to send for some food and tea – the pandarens’ is excellent – and we can speak more.”

—-

“Shomi! Shomi!”

The blacksmith’s daughter looked up from the target dummy as she lowered her polearm. The target dummy in front of her stood marred; its makeshift Zandalari countenance, complete with bamboo shards for tusks, had been ripped and beaten in multiple areas from the pandaren’s sharp blade. Straw stuffing popped from the gashes.

Running towards her was one of the younger pandaren of Zouchin Village. His long braid was fuzzed in the late afternoon humidity. He panted hard as he came vaulting up; he was coming from the rise that led to the beach.

“Hello, Zhi,” Shomi said, smiling when the boy nearly rammed into Bo the kitemaster, who was busy tying up the red and purple kites to their posts. “You’re in a hurry.”

Zhi skid to a stop in front of her. Grass stuck to his knees as if he’d fallen down while running before Shomi had seen him. He went to open his mouth, but only more, gasping breaths came out.

“Take a moment to breathe!”

Zhi nodded quickly. He put his paws on his knees and took a couple of deep breaths. His blue linen tunic was dotted with white sand. So he had been at the beach.

“There’s – there’s -” Each word was punctured with a breathy pant.

“Zhi -”

“No – I’m – fine – I -” Zhi straightened out and inhaled so much air his whole chest puffed out. He then exhaled loudly. “There’s a big lizard on the beach!”

Shomi blinked.

“A big lizard?”

“Yes! It’s huge!”

Shomi tilted her head. She glanced at the Zandalari puppet, then back at Zhi. She had to train – she was just getting the hand on a new technique with her polearm – but this seemed… interesting!

And besides, with how the heat was – despite the colder mountains to their backs – a break might be welcome… even if the break might be an innocent trick on Zhis part.

“Oh really?” Shomi asked, her curiosity obvious in her voice. She placed her polearm against its latch behind her back, strapping it in. Her muscles ached. Zhi nodded. “What kind of lizard? A basilisk?”

“No! I -… well, I don’t know what it is, really. Neither does Elder Shu.”

Shomi’s ears perked up. Elder Shu was there? Maybe this was real. Now intrigued, she nodded out to the rise Zhi had just run up. “Come on. Show me.”

Zhi grinned and started back to the beach. Shomi followed.

“We figured we’d ask you ‘cause you have that big polearm,” Zhi explained as they picked their way down the gentle slope, leaving the village. It was quiet; many of the villagers were readying dinner for later, and so most were nestled in their houses.

Already Shomi could hear the cries of the gulls that inhabited the beach and the ever-present smell of the brine of the ocean. “And… well, Elder Shu said you were training with that outsider when the Zandalari came. He said you might know… because this lizard isn’t one he knows. Maybe it’s from where the outsiders came from,” Zhi added.

Shomi was very curious now. It was true she’d trained with one of the individuals who had come from beyond the mists – it was them she had to thank for helping to show her father that she could be a warrior – and while they had spoken a little of their “Eastern Kingdoms,” Shomi could not really recall any conversations regarding giant lizards -or had they?

Shomi frowned thoughtfully. Giant lizards. Perhaps something was ringing a bell. They’d spoken about the cloud serpents, but…

“Oh,” Shomi said. “Well, I’m not sure if I could help with that. I probably don’t know what kind of lizard it is either.”

“Yeah. Elder Shu said it was a long-shot. But you still have your polearm!”

“Why’s that good?”

“The lizard is kind of mean. I found it first when I was trying to catch some crabs. Almost stumbled onto it when I went around the curve! It snapped at me.”

They leveled out from the slope and reached the beach. The sand was soft underneath Shomi’s bare feet.

“Almost there,” Zhi promised. He led her around the curve to their right around one of the large trees by the border of the sand and dunes.

Shomi gasped when she rounded around the curve.

Elder Shu stood off to the side. In front of him, laying against the sand, was a large lizard.

Its scales were black, and its underbelly and the webbings between its wings a dull red. Two black horns swept out from behind its head, coupled by another pair of smaller horns, jutting out from underneath the larger. It was twice, perhaps three times, the size of the yaks that roamed the cliff-face above. Its eyes were open, but lidded. The yellow irises locked on Shomi and Zhi with a distant dullness.

Behind it, the sand was marked through, as if the lizard had landed and skid through the sand before coming to rest. The lizard lay on its size; its legs were loose, unfolded, and in disarray. The water lapped at its claws.

It was only then that Shomi realized that the lizard was missing one of its front legs – its left.

“Hello, Shomi,” Elder Shu called out. He motioned to the large creature. “Do you know what this is?”

“A dragon,” Shomi replied. She took a couple steps closer and squinted at the dragon. It stared at her. Its entire body was quivering. “The outsider did tell me about these! ”

That’s right! She’d heard all about the “Cataclysm” and the dragons that had been involved with it - or at least, some of it. But she knew enough from the stranger from the mists to know that this lizard was a dragon – and no cloud serpent. The outsider has described them like this – four-legged, horned, wings like a bat’s. What else could this creature be but a dragon from these “Eastern Kingdoms?”

“Is it injured?” Shomi asked when Elder Shu didn’t say anything. The elder pandaren shook his head and frowned.

“I do not know. I only see the shaking and the leg. But the leg is cauterized. It is no fresh injury.” Shu crossed his arms. “And yet it does not try to get up. It is weak. There is something wrong.”

Shomi watched the dragon for a moment longer before looking at Elder Shu. Zhu was at her side now. Her smile faded as the obvious question in her head arose.

“So, uhm… what do we do?”

A large, strange creature on the beach was going to attract attention – and Zouchin Village didn’t need attention after the crisis with the Zandalari had passed. The villagers had enjoyed the quiet with the invasion over and done with and the trolls pushed out. Seeing another stranger on the coast, even if it was an injured, weak thing, would not be good for the already-thin morale.

This had to be done silently.

Elder Shu didn’t answer immediately. The three watched the dragon for a quiet moment; Shomi’s frown had deepened without her knowledge. The poor thing looked to be in pain. Its eyes closed.

“I do not know,” Shu said. “Whatever is wrong with it, I cannot fix. That I know for certain.”

“We can’t kill it,” Shomi said. “It’s an innocent creature.”

“I… suppose not.”

“Elder Shu! Please. It’s injured. It needs help.”

The pandaren looked at her. “I do not wish for the beast’s death, Shomi. But I do not wish it to suffer, either.”

Shomi understood his point. She bit her bottom lip and looked back at the dragon; it gave a shuddering breath.

“You’re sure you can’t do anything?”

Elder Shu shook his head. “Do you feel the chill?”

“The chill?”

“Step closer.”

Shomi tilted her head, but did as she was told. The dragon didn’t move. She took another cautious step. The gulls cried above her.

When she was three feet away, she felt it – a cold radiating off of the dragon’s body.

“Oh.” The pandaren frowned. “That doesn’t seem very… healthy.” But how could she know? Were dragons supposed to be cold? Or hot? Or lukewarm?

“You see,” Shu said.

The dragon sighed again.

The pandaren’s ears drooped. When she was young she had found an injured tiger cub in the forests when she had secretly practiced combat with a wooden stick, away from her father’s watchful eye; the cub had died. She could not help it. She felt the same way now – but this was no baby tiger. This was a dragon from beyond the mists, a strange creature… but all the same, Shomi did not want it to die.

But if Elder Shu didn’t know how to help the creature, than no one in the village would.

The blacksmith’s daughter paused. No one in Zouchin would know -… but beyond the mountains…

She looked up at the mountains behind them. Their cold white peaks were shiny against the afternoon sun, glinting like ivory metal. She squinted thoughtfully.

“The Temple of the White Tiger is just beyond the mountains. Perhaps we might send for help there.”

Elder Shu chuckled. “That’s quite a walk! And all this for a simple injured thing?”

“The kites are fast.” Shomi looked at him earnestly. “I can go. I’ve never been to the Temple of the White Tiger before,” Shomi said. Her heart leaped into her throat. She might even see the great Xuen, the Tiger of Strength. What an opportunity! “And… well, I had planned to go anyway -”

“Ah. I see. Your father has known about this?” A knowing crinkled in the corner of Shu’s grey eyes.

“Well – uhm, no. But this gives me a reason to. Maybe the monks can help the dragon.”

Elder Shu smiled. “Maybe. Let us hope that some are not busy to help some creature.”

“They’re always helpful! Remember when I got sick and their mistweavers came?” Zhu said, speaking for the first time since they’d arrived at the beach. Shomi nodded. He’d been very ill – Zhu’s mother, Liu Ze the innkeeper, had thought him dying – and the mistweavers had descended from the mountain to save him. They had come when the Zandalari had injured half the village, as well, time and time again. Surely they could spare one or two to see this strange lizard.

“Ask Bo for a kite, then, Shomi. May the Crane guide your footsteps – and hurry! I do not think this ‘dragon’ has much time left.”


	16. Chapter 16

The party of dragons was larger than Rexxar would have liked.

They were busy making their way up the gentle curving slope that led up into the higher, greener reaches of Blade’s Edge as the half-orc glanced around at the large beings who tromped to his sides. Their paws kicked up little pebbles and dirt from the heated rock ground beneath their feet.

Two of the black dragons walked together, both of their heads hunched, fins flat against their necks – Thalarian and Ylaria. On his left was only one of the nether-drakes Neltharaku had volunteered – a veridian by the name of Feraku.

The younger black drake Pyria and other nether-drakes had been ordered to go, but Rexxar had advised against it - three dragons for an assassination mission was pushing it already. Five, six, seven, would have been too much, especially with the bright hides of the nether-drakes.

He did not worry about the black dragons; Rexxar was well aware they could hide in the shadows of the ancient trees.

He reshouldered his large brown bow. Dry dust clung to his face and bare skin, but he hardly registered it.

They reached the top of the cliff. Rexxar could feel the sprung tension rolling off of all the drakes; their silence struck their maws closed and cast their grim eyes forward.

Ahead, endless, stretched the large, dull-green forests of Blade’s Edge Mountains. The tree canopy grew high above, blocking out the red of the nether-streams; only small slits of light managed to brush through, falling in sharp, arced streams to illuminate, like spotlights, the ground. Thick bushes swept up from the grey-green grass, dotted with purple, exotic flowers, and long-leaved ferns outstretched their fuzzy tips out into the overgrown pathway that snaked out in front of the party to disappear into the gloominess. Distant calls of the kaliris, the arakkoa’s vicious, purple-red owls-like animals, pierced, in muffled tones, the silence; the quiet wind was the birds’ only reply.

Thalarian chortled low in his throat to Rexxar’s side. “The rogues could be anywhere.”

“Yes,” the half-orc agreed while he slowly swept his eyes over the forest. “But a group of a dozen will be easier to find that a group of lower numbers.”

Ylaria started forward with her bright orange tail slashing behind her. Misha ducked her head out of the way as the club of the dragon’s tail nearly smacked into her snout, and the bear grumbled.

“Let’s hurry on with this,” Ylaria said with a sigh behind her as she strode down the path and hunkered her head and wings down. Thalarian trotted after her. “I am itching to kill.”

“Stop.” Rexxar withdrew his bow from his back. Ylaria did as she was asked and glanced back, but with some annoyance to her eyes. “Misha will go first. Her sense of smell is better than all of us.”

The nether-drake tilted his head. “A bear is an interesting choice.”

“And the smartest.” Rexxar stroked back one of Misha’s ears. “Go, Misha. Find them.”

The bear grunted and loped off, soon to disappear into the depths of the forest.

He watched her go, silently, before turning to the three drakes. “I trust you can shift into human form at your age?”

The drakes, as one, stared. Ylaria was the first to nod; a great plume of black smoke surrounded her and quickly dispered. A short woman with black, layered hair reaching her shoulders and sharp, angled features with high cheekbones stared at Rexxar impatiently with intense yellow eyes. Her armor was black leather with orange accents, similar to the fierce orange color of her neck and belly.

Feraku shifted after. His smoke was silver in color, and shining; it disappeared to reveal a young man of medium height with blue-purple hair, cropped short, with a dark blue cloak around his form. A deep hood hovered over his face to hide his bright blue, jelly-like skin.

Thalarian cleared his throat. Ylaria gave him a glare.

“Go on,” she prodded. She started tapping her foot.

The drake shifted his weight and closed his eyes. A sluggish cloud of white smoke crept up his form; it was a full thirty seconds of silence until the smoke evaporated. The human revealed was tall. His black hair was choppy and short; his features were soft and in deep contrast with his sister’s sharper nose and cheeks. His armor was black plate, but shoddily built and brittle-looking – yet the strangest thing were his remaining black horns curling back from his scalp.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, raising a hand to brush his fingers over the horns. “I can never, um, get the horns to go away.” He looked between the other two drakes. “Uh. Not yet, anyway.”

“More practice,” Rexxar said. The drake’s self-consciousness was obvious. Thalarian gave him a grateful smile and dropped his hand. “Alright. Let us be swift. The rogues, as you said, can be anywhere. Let us hope they do not see us coming.”

The three nodded, and in silence, they began into the thick forest, leaving the dusty, spiked valley behind.

—-

Anduin watched as Ella gently peeled back the leafy gauze wrapped around his injured arm; he stopped himself from wincing as the pain prickled against his skin as the bandage came off, pulling with it sticky, drying blood and, disturbingly, even flecks of the blackened skin that surrounded the edges of the wound.

The prince felt his stomach begin to curdle as he gazed down at the newly-revealed wound. Wrapped tight in the bandage for that quick half-hour, the blood had had nowhere else to go but around, and so it smeared, fully, around his entire pale forearm; it looked as if Anduin had dunked his entire arm into a vat of red paint.

Ella clucked her tongue and shook her head after she had placed the bloodied green bandages off to the side and brushed off the red stains from her gloves and onto the grass.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Anduin murmured. It felt bad, though it had hurt worse when Sablemane had first ripped his fel-iron dagger through. At the very least, Wrathion had been able to distract him from the beating, sharp pain, but now that the Black Prince had excused himself to go check on the dealings with Sabellian, the brightness of the stinging against the prince’s arm was worse than ever – though Anduin’s face hardly revealed his pain, save for his lips tilted down in a small, small frown.

“Eh. A little,” Ella replied. She shifted her legs underneath her – she was kneeling in front of him – and outstretched her hands. “Nothing to be feared. I am being good in fel cleansing.” The draenei looked up and winked at him, her blue hair falling slightly in front of her face. “Many years against the Burning Legion has to been prepared me for these things.”

Anduin smiled at her gratefully. The sting from the cut itself was agonizing, but the subtle burning of the fel from the dagger was worse; the priest felt like he could feel the demonic energies shake in his arm’s muscles.

“Now I ask for you to be unmoving,” the shaman ordered, her smile vanishing as her bright, glowing eyes became serious while she outstretched her lithe, blue-purple hands. “I am to be healing you fully now. No more little dragon prince interruptions.”

Anduin nodded. He watched Ella move her hands over his wound; they began to glow with a blueish sheen before water, contained in a globulous sphere, bloomed against both hands as they had beforehand before Wrathion had come inside the tent looking so sullen.

Slowly, the shaman lowered her hands, and the water touched Anduin’s wound; the prince bit his lip, though he knew it wasn’t going to hurt. The water magic was cool and comforting to the touch. He began to relax as Ella swept her hands back and forth. In the quiet tent, the gentle bubbling of the water seemed to echo off of the thick cloth walls.

Unlike last time, however, the water possessed a shiny white sheen; tiny bursts of energy, like stars, winked inside the water at Ella’s hands. Anduin watched, fascinated by the healing process, and began to realize that when one of such balls of energy cracked open, that the burning fel energies in his arm lessened – a purging spell, intertwined with the healing of the waters. Ella was a masterful healer. Anduin found himself in awe of it; unbeknownst to him, his blue eyes had gone wide as he watched her work.

Healing like this always intrigued him. The Light was known for its healing powers – of course – but then there were the shamans, using water to heal, the mistweavers, using their strange life-energy of the Chi to mend… how he wished he could learn it all. At the very least, he could study it.

His small smile fell. Just as he wished to study more of the waters of the Vale – healing waters, just like the waters bouncing contained in Ella’s outstretched hands.

What was Garrosh looking for there? The thought made that same twisting, frustrated anger that had initially burned in his chest at hearing the news threaten to blossom again, but Anduin forced it down. This entire ordeal made little sense to the young prince. He wasn’t sure what the Warchief could do with healing, magical waters – though Anduin had heard stories of the very same waters mutating fauna into powerful creatures like lizards into the Saurok.

He frowned. Did that process take long? Or did it come quickly? Was Garrosh looking to make super-soldiers from the ancient waters of the Vale, as he had aimed to make super-soldiers from the Sha energies of the Divine Bell?

Anduin sighed quietly. The Vale was a sacred place, guarded by the Golden Lotus and by the Shado-pan. How had the Warchief gotten passed their defenses with his goblin excavators?

There were too many questions. He closed his eyes and tried to force the swimming thoughts from his mind. He would find out soon enough – hopefully.

Though it meant leaving Wrathion behind. In his pocket Anduin could feel the strangely warm gem rubbed up against his thigh; one of its sharper edges poked at him.

At least he had that. Anduin frowned thoughtfully. He wondered if he could contact Wrathion with it first, or if the Black Prince had to instigate the connection himself.

Anduin supposed he’d find out later.

“So,” Ella piped up, interrupting Anduin’s thoughts. Anduin focused on her. “Little dragon prince is interesting.”

“Oh.” Anduin smiled slightly. “Yes. He is.”

Ella glanced up at him, squinted at his smile – Anduin felt his chest flutter almost nervously as he realized the shaman’s look was almost knowing – before looking back down at the wound.

“You like little dragon prince?”

“Yes. I find him very -… well, like you said. Interesting. Fascinating, even. He’s so unlike any other dragon I’ve met. And he cares so strongly for Azeorth that it’s hard not to not like him.” He smiled wryly. “Even though he’s difficult at times.”

Ella smiled but did not look up.

Anduin cleared his throat, blushing slightly when he realized he’d said more than he had intended to, and his tone had been earnest – too earnest for just simple “fascination.”

“I am seeing you like him very much,” Ella said after a moment.

Anduin hesitated. Not trusting his voice, he nodded mutely.

Ella hummed to herself. Her fingers waved once, and the sparking of white purging energy in the water bloomed out in a bursting of gentle white rays, enveloping Anduin’s arm in a shiny white.

Anduin inhaled sharply as the fel energy gave one last, final shake before it disappeared fully as the purge devoured it. Absurdly, the first thought that came to him was a curiosity; he wondered if that was the same feeling Wrathion had felt when Anduin’s own purging spell had hit him to eat away at the demonic Sha.

The white glow died. Ella smiled, pleased, stopped humming, and went on to use the water to continue to close up the wound bit by bit.

“Little dragon prince likes you very much too,” the shaman said. Anduin looked at her. “You can be seeing it in his eyes. He smiles very much when you speak.”

Anduin swallowed. The fluttering of nervousness in his chest began to grow warm – a strange but altogether not an unpleasant feeling. His blush deepened; he cleared his throat as if it would make the red on his face fall off. It didn’t.

“You noticed that?”

“I am not trying to be of rude, Prince Anduin,” Ella said. “But it is being very hard to not be of notice.”

“Oh.” Anduin swallowed again. It was… that noticeable? The warmth in his chest started to give way to his nerves again. Who else had noticed? Had Varian noticed? The thought made Anduin uncomfortable. Varian, clearly, did not like Wrathion; what if it was for more than Wrathion being what he was, and how he acted?

Anduin sighed. Now he was being paranoid.

“Oh! I did not mean it as to make you scared.” Ella looked up, alarmed, as if she could read his mind. “To distract.” She nodded her head to the wound. “This is not being a very happy process.” The draenei looked up at him again and smiled good-naturedly. “I am just thinking you two are very cute. It makes me smile.”

Anduin smiled at her, the gesture wobbly. He wasn’t sure how else to respond, but he knew he had to say something. “Thank you,” he murmured, his hand pulling at the blue cloth of his pants that bunched up at his bent knee. The gem felt warmer in his pocket.

Ella nodded and fell silent as she healed.

It was some time before they spoke again. Anduin cleared his throat. “Ella?”

“Mm?”

“The Vale. Is my father -… how bad is it?”

Ella stopped her hands from moving. She peered up at him through the bangs of her lavender hair with a frown.

“I am not knowing, Prince Anduin,” she said quietly. The draenei reached out and clasped one of her hands with his; the prince felt happy with how relaxed she was with him. So many often treated him too boldly as the royalty his was, treating him stiffly and awkwardly – it was a breath of fresh air to have someone treat him as an equal. “But I am knowing your father is very worried. And I am knowing you going with him is a very good thing.”

She smiled at him. Anduin smiled back.

“Thank you, Ella,” he replied. The draenei nodded and retreated her hand; the water plumed up against her fingers once again. “That helped.”

“Good. Now. You must be being quiet now. I am almost finished.”

Anduin nodded and did as he was told, feeling more at ease.

—-

Wrathion, cast arm close to his chest and his head held high, made his way down to his Blacktalons and the hulking, still form of Sabellian all while ignoring the subtle but scalding looks of the Alliance he happened to pass while leaving their camp.

The fires had been put out. The stench of heady ash mixed with the smell of burnt earth from Sabellian’s earlier rage and the even fainter smell long-eaten food. Wrathion wrinkled his nose; his stomach grumbled and scratched. He still hadn’t gotten a chance to eat.

Soon, though. Hopefully. His mouth watered. Not for the first time his mind drifted to thoughts of the food he’d been served at the Tavern – noodles sauteed in onions and mushan broth, goat roasted with mushrooms and topped with thin-cut garlic. He sighed. The Tavern had been his makeshift home. Now where was he supposed to go, after all of this was done with?

The dragon scowled to himself at his own self-pitying. It was nothing more than an open, beckoning invitation for the Sha to creep back up into his heart again and overtake him. He shook away his ill thoughts.

It didn’t help he was going to have to leave Anduin behind. The thought made him frown. The Alliance prince was a goody-goody and stubborn -… but Wrathion would miss his company. And if he was honest with himself, he would miss it badly. He grumbled. Forcing himself to tell Anduin to go had not been an easy decision, but he knew it had been the right one.

Anduin had his responsibilities; Wrathion had his.

Though the news about the Vale was worrisome. What could Garrosh be looking for there? It intrigued the Black Prince to no end. What new treasures would the Warchief find this time? Something as powerful as the Divine Bell had been? Oh, he itched to know…

But he had to deal with Sabellian first.

The camp was quick to fade behind him as he trudged over to Sabellian, and he was glad for it. The sun shone behind the beast – Wrathion had to squint his eyes as he tried to look over the dragon in the glare of the distant star.

The excess chains, as he’d ordered, had been stripped off – good. They’d made excellent time. The only bindings to remain on his brother were those around his neck, his front and back claws, and his wings. The red and black harpoons remained jutting out from Sabellian’s sides.

“Your walk went well, I hope.”

Left, seemingly out of nowhere, had appeared at his side as he closed the gap between himself and the black dragon. Wrathion glanced over at her with a tired smile, though was careful to keep his head still high and his shoulders still straight. He could not look weak in front of her as he had in front of Anduin; her worrying would stress him further, and stress her further. The orc had enough to worry about than the prince who was over-worrying over stupid things; the thought frustrated him. The talk with Anduin had calmed him – but only somewhat. The flitter of unease still pulled at his stomach like a sour reminder, as if the blessings of the Celestials they had given to him and he had received with his smarmy smile were trying to burst through and scream at him in this hour that he doubted himself.

But true wisdom comes from knowing what is right, and sometimes doing nothing at all.

Wrathion scowled inwardly. Ugh. Yu’lon’s worst of all. How many times had that phrase tickled at the back of his head in the passed hours? He looked away from Left to stare at Sabellian, whose sides hardly rose and fell anymore. The dragon looked half-dead with his eyes closed and those vicious harpoons impaled into his shoulder and flank, the scales ripped apart at the impact area. Blood now seeped down to pool at the grass below.

It seemed, however, Yu’lon’s advice had resurfaced much too late. Wrathion squinted. No. He had done something. He had saved his prince, and in the process, had taken down his torturer and his friend’s killer all in one.

He was doing the right thing.

He must have been.

And Wrathion did not want to doubt himself any longer. He was doing this for the greater good. He was. And no one could tell him otherwise – not Anduin, not Alexstrasza, and not Sabellian himself with that show of such fierce emotion.

“Yes. Very well,” Wrathion said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He could still feel Anduin’s quickened heartbeat underneath his hand through the blond’s wrist. He could still smell Anduin, remember the taste of his lips. The thought made his emotionless face flicker into a lighter expression- a small smile wisped up at the corner of his lips and his faraway eyes softened.

Left grumbled incoherently and relaxed her tight grip on her golden crossbow. Blood stained her black and blue gloves.

“I trust this was easy?” Wrathion gestured to Sabellian. The elder dragon hadn’t moved or opened his eyes. Surely, the Black Prince thought, the dragon had smelled him.

Perhaps he was out of his dry words to quip. The thought made Wrathion’s small smile widen just infinitesimally.

The orc shot him a look. “No.”

“Oh.”

The Blacktalon agent nodded. Wrathion squinted at her. She seemed… uptight. More uptight than usual, the Black Prince thought. What was bothering her? He frowned and tilted his head at the orc and opened his mouth to ask her when Left saw his look, stiffened, and continued.

“The chains proved more difficult to take off than we realized,” Left said quickly but with a stern voice, interrupting Wrathion’s train of thought. “And too large to hold his human form.”

Wrathion smiled. He filed away his previous concern to ask her later, when they were alone, and perhaps when she was in a better mood. He did not take her snappiness personally. “No need to worry over the chains’ size, Left,” the Black Prince replied, his smile only widening as he spoke. “I will take care of it.”

The agent eyed him suspiciously. “At any rate, we’re done,” she grumbled, then nodded her head to Sabellian, her ponytail swinging idly across her shoulder. “We are ready when you are.”

“Excellent, Left.” He clapped his hands together and withheld a wince as the gentle touch sent his healing arm a pang of pain up the bone. How annoying. “I had planned to stay the night here while I finalize my plans.”

“The Alliance is leaving.”

“So they are.”

Left glanced over at the camp. She said nothing for a moment before she huffed. “Good.”

Wrathion smiled at her teasingly. “My my, Left. You seem almost sad. Don’t tell me you’re going to miss Anduin Wrynn?”

The orc scoffed. “He was only getting in the way.”

The Black Prince smiled at her, but he supposed that was not truly what was bothering the orc.

“And you, my Prince?”

“Hm?”

“The Prince. Anduin. He won’t be with us.”

Wrathion wrinkled his nose. “I’m aware.”

“And you are unbothered by that.”

Wrathion sideglanced her. “Somewhat,” he answered, surprising himself with his own truthfulness. He shifted his weight awkwardly after the words left his mouth. “But no matter. Anduin Wrynn had his own dealings, as I have mine.”

Left raised a brow. Wrathion grumbled. Sometimes she was too keen-eyed.

Perturbed, he turned to face Sabellian, and without further comment he strode closer. The heat from his elder brother’s hide was burning away the chill from the northern air coming off from the cold Kun-lai mountains; it bothered Wrathion little. He halted a mere two feet away from Sabellian’s snout and reached out with the edge of his pointed boot and bopped it against the dragon’s nose.

“Wake up,” Wrathion ordered, all semblance of his good-natured humor with Left gone.

“Shift into your human form,” the Black Prince ordered. Sabellian didn’t move. “Now. I don’t have all day,” he added snootily.

The dragon heaved a great sigh. His eyes opened, and his secondary, transparent eyelid slid across his orange, glossy eyes slowly. Without moving his head, the dragon tilted his gaze up to Wrathion. His pupils were dilated to their thinnest slits, and there was a strange, faraway feeling to his look that, for whatever reason, made Wrathion’s stomach curl with unease.

Sabellian stared, unseeing. He said nothing as he locked his eyes on Wrathion and breathed out hard again.

Wrathion stared back up until the feeling of discomfort became almost unbearable, growing warm and spiking in his chest, and he looked away with a shifting of his feet.

“I will collapse under the chains,” Sabellian murmured once Wrathion had looked away.

“Not to worry. They will fit you just fine.” Wrathion smiled brightly but it was quick to fall from his face to be replaced by an annoyed frown. “Now go on.”

Sabellian watched him.

“You don’t have much of a choice,” Wrathion snapped. He smiled suddenly once again. “Oh. I nearly forgot. Left? Go near those harpoons.”

The orc did as she was ordered, rounding around to the red harpoon lodged into the dragon’s shoulder. Much to Wrathion’s wild disappointment, no flicker of fear or even anticipation arose in Sabellian’s orange eyes. He only stared blankly with that same glossy-eyed look.

“Rip them out. You may need more hands.”

Left grabbed onto the harpoon and yanked – Sabellian snarled and his eyes scrunched closed, his claws gripping hard into the ground as he lurched forward. Two other Blacktalons joined the orc. Together, slowly, agonizingly slow, they twisted and pulled the sharpened metal pole from the dragon’s shoulder.

Wrathion watched the dragon’s face, how it curled up in pain – but Sabellian didn’t cry out save for another growl or snarl. There were no whimpers or whines as Wrathion would have liked.

The Black Prince scowled as the first harpoon plopped out from the dragon’s shoulder without little performance to show for it. Sabellian breathed out hard. Blood ran down his blackened scales.

“The other,” Wrathion ordered. Still he did not look away from Sabellian as the Blacktalons began on the black harpoon at Sabellian’s flank. “Slower,” he said after the rogues managed to take out half of the harpoon in a mere handful of seconds. “Make it hurt.”

Sabellian hissed as the Blacktalons followed their prince’s demands. His claws twisted into the grass, and his eyes remained scrunched closed. Smoke curled from his nose, and his teeth bared back in a silent snarl.

Finally, the Blacktalons shucked out the last harpoon. Wrathion rose his eyes to look at the puncture wound there, and smiled, pleased, when he saw the gaping flesh left there, how the scales at the impact point were twisted and damaged.

“Not as bad as my arm,” Wrathion sighed. “But it’ll do for now.”

“You don’t know what you’re about to get into,” Sabellian grumbled, voice thick with a dripping mix of pain and hate.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Wrathion argued with a growl. “Now shift!”

Sabellian sucked in a breath – Wrathion tensed, thinking he was about to blow fire, when the smoke of transformation bloomed about the elder dragon’s form and surrounded him.

Caught off guard, Wrathion took a quick step back once out of instinct before scoffing at himself and stopping his backwards retreat, digging his heels into the grass to force himself to stand still as Sabellian shifted. The clanging, glass-like, heavy twinkling of the chains resounded from within the thick smoke that slowly but surely began to shrink .

A full minute passed before the smoke dispersed. Sabellian stood in his human form with a scowl, blood dripping down from his shoulder and waist, marking the puncture wounds of the harpoons and blending in with the other stains of his own blood from the scuffle with Alexstrasza.

Wrathion grinned. The Blacktalons had done an excellent job with the chains. Those that were too loose around Sabellian’s human form fell away from the dragon, but those remaining were tightly wrapped about the alchemist – one chain looped around his waist, and another encircled the dragon’s neck, pulling it back to arc back up at a straight, awkward angle that did not look comfortable to stand still in.

The Blacktalons drew their ranged weapons and aimed at Sablemane.

“Left. Smaller chains. Tie his arms.”

Left nodded. She gestured with a rough beckoning of her hand to a tall, muscled Blacktalon orc who started forward; at his belt hung iron chains. He pulled them from their locks.

Sablemane snarled. Before anyone could react, he smashed his foot down and an enormous, roaring line of fire spat up from the ground where he had kicked his heel, bursting forward with a scream and sending thick black smoke and clumps of dirt flying.

Wrathion was the first to react. With his own snarl he summoned dark, wisping black magic into his hands and shot it forward; he was so close he could not miss. The ray of dark energy slammed hard against the elder dragon’s chest and the Titan chains about Sablemane sparked into life just as Wrathion amplified his beam of magic into the same holding spell he had used against Fahrad – and Sabellian, as well, at the Tavern, though it had worked little then.

This time, however, was different. Sablemane yelled out. He stopped struggling, his line of fire dying as quickly as it had erupted, as the Wrathion’s continuous bolt of magic, which streamed from the Black Prince’s raised, open hand, forced his body into immobility.

Sablemane looked at Wrathion wildly. Sheer, burning hate sizzled hot in the elder dragon’s eyes.

Wrathion kept up his spell. “Left,” he said, calmly. “The chains.”

The two Blacktalons quickly started forward. They snatched Sablemane’s arms and tied them back, keeping away from his face as if wary he would bite with his suddenly-sharpened teeth.

It hardly mattered. Sablemane only had his eyes on Wrathion and his eyes were so broken and ferocious, so without his usual, clear-headed, haughtier gaze, that Wrathion wished Left and the other orc would hurry up so he could look away from his older brother lest the feeling of sheer fear in Wrathion’s chest take him over completely.

“Done!” Left yelled, and Wrathion quickly stopped his spell and tore his eyes away from Sablemane, breathing hard.

“My Prince? Are you alright?” Left continued. She’d seen the look on his face.

“I’m fine, Left,” Wrathion panted. He looked hard at the ground, but Sablemane’s burning eyes seemed etched into his vision, smoking. Something about how he had looked at him – why… why did Wrathion feel this fear? His elder brother had looked at him with hate before, but – but this was – this was something different -

The Black Prince closed his eyes and shook his head hard. His turban nearly fell off; he raised a clawed hand to put it back in place as he opened his eyes again and straightened out, taking a deep breath and putting over a quick, clumsy mask of calm to hide his troubles. Left stared at him. The other Blacktalons were busy surrounding Sablemane, who was fully debilitated from movement, now with the smaller chains to hold him back.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, smiling brilliantly.

Left frowned. He wasn’t – and they both knew it.

Wrathion looked over at Sablemane and was glad to see the dragon was no longer looking at him. He swallowed hard. He was in control, now.

So why did he feel the opposite?

—-

The afternoon sun was low when Kalecgos rose from his chair, legs tingling numbly from sitting so long, and stretched out his arms above his head with a pleased grumble rumbling from his throat. It was colder inside the tower now that the sun was beginning its slow descent to the west, shining against the rolling, dark green plains and crags of Townlong; Kalecgos welcomed the cooler temperature readily.

Not so much so, he supposed, as the fire dragon who was still sitting across from him, an empty teacup and the the remains of a hastily eaten meal in front of her. Kalecgos dropped his arms to his sides. Alexstrasza was looking out at the window, watching the sun. Her red-orange gaze was distant and faraway – as it had been for most of their conversation.

“May I?” The blue dragon gestured to the dishes in front of Alexstrasza; she was obviously finished, but it never hurt to ask.

The Life-binder’s eyes flickered back to the dishes, then back to the window. “Yes, thank you.”

Leaning forward, Kalecgos grabbed both sets of plates and cups and set them aside on the rest of the mess of his desk behind him; he brushed some loose papers, scrawled with black, lilting ink, away on the floor to make room for the items in his hands.

He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. They’d been talking for hours – and about everything, it seemed. From the fates of the Dragonflights as a whole; to Wrathion, the Black Prince, and to Sabellian, his new rival; to the Thunder King, to the Mogu, to the strange darkness that inhabited Pandaria as a whole.

And most of all, Kalecgos had tried to explain to Alexstrasza how she might be able to fit into this new world -… and had seemed to fail miserably.

Kalecgos sat back down and rubbed at his eyes again. He’d have thought it would be easier, but Alexstrasza, despite her infinite wisdom, was not so wise in this respect. She had stared at him blankly for most of the time, with her red, elf-like brows tilted down in confusion.

But she had been a Dragon Aspect for the majority of her life, and Kalecgos had not. He understood her plight, but found himself unable to accurately answer her question.

How could she – or Nozdormu, or Ysera – fit in this morals’ world, if they themselves knew little of how it worked?

“You could explore,” Kalecgos has said in a last-ditch effort as he had become desperate to make her try to understand. He found it so easy to fit in with mortals – but indeed, he always had. “Visit -”

“I watched this world grow, Kalec,” Alexstrasza had sighed. “I know every crevice of Azeroth.”

“You could explore as a mortal. See how they work – how they live.”

Alexstrasza had gone quiet then, and had stayed quiet up until this very moment. Kalecgos sighed.

Alexstrasza looked at him. “I am sorry I am being…” She paused thoughtfully. “Hard to interpret.”

“What? Oh! No, no. You’re fine, Alexstrasza. Please. I find I’m at fault myself with my terrible explanations.” He smiled at her kindly, but she only returned it with a flicker of her own smile that did not reach her eyes. When was the last time Alexstrasza had looked happy, Kalecgos wondered? He had not seen her truly smile during the Cataclysm, or beforehand. Her children were dead, and her mate as well – and she had been forced to destroy her former brother-in-arms, Neltharion – but that was Deathwing, really, for had not Neltharion died long ago when the Old Gods had ripped him apart?

They went quiet. Alexstrasza went back to watching the sunset.

“So,” Kalecgos started. “Are you sure Nozdormu has completely left the Caverns of Time?”

“Completely,” Alexstrasza sighed. She did not look at him. “I have heard he is visiting the old places of the world. Dire Maul, I believe, was the last time I heard from him.” She smiled her false smile. “I am not surprised he still clings to places forgotten by time.”

Kalecgos nodded. “Ysera?”

Alexstrasza’s eyes flickered. “My sister? I do not know.”

A sore spot. Kalecgos let it drop. “Do you -”

A falcon’s cry from the window caught his attention. He looked up just as the bird alighted on the sill; it was a bright white falcon with speckles of dark blue dotting across its brilliant plumage. It wore a small necklace of bright blue beads and strands of blue and white fur. In its talons, it held a small scroll.

“If you’ll excuse me a moment,” Kalecgos said. Alexstrasza nodded, and the blue dragon rose to his feet and crossed the room to the bird. He was no stranger to these messengers; they came and went daily from all across Pandaria, bringing him news from across the continent.

“Hello,” he said to the falcon. The bird peeped and stuck out its claw. Gently, the dragon took the scroll from its talons and unrolled it. A wisp of azure smoke drifted from the page; the script embedded upon the parchment was beautiful and lilting, and of dark blue ink – at the bottom was the mark of the White Tiger, a stylized tiger’s head surrounded by a star-like symbol.

A message from Xuen’s temple. Interesting. Kalecgos hadn’t heard from the monks there in some time.

He read quickly so as not to seem rude to Alexstrasza.

Kalecgos,

Greetings. We have come across an interesting anomaly upon the beaches of Zouchin Village. We have attempted contact with the Black Prince Wrathion, but have heard he is further indisposed. You, as Blue Dragon, come in secondary contact. We know little other Dragons known on Pandaria.

A dragon of the Black Flight was found upon the shore. She has been brought to the Temple. A sickness ravages her. We know little of its origins.

Xuen has asked for you personally. While the sickness is one thing, what the dragon holds is another. We know of your interest in artifacts. The dragon was found with a small sphere of bronze. We fear what it does and have not dared to touch it.

Please come at your quickest convenience.

Master Lao

Kalecgos stared at the letter.

Another black dragon?

He glanced at Alexstrasza. “How many dragons did you say were in Outland?”

Alexstrasza tilted her head. “I wasn’t sure. Some. Why do you ask?”

“The monks at the Temple of the White Tiger have written me saying they’ve found another in Kun-lai. On the beach. She’s ill.” He looked back at the letter and re-read it quickly. “They said that she had an artifact with her. A sphere of bronze.” Kalecgos frowned, frustrated. He wished they had sent more details, but perhaps the letter had been written hastily.

“A sphere of bronze?” Alexstrasza repeated. Kalecgos looked at her.

“Yes. Do you know of anything like it?”

The former Aspect went quiet. She frowned thoughtfully -… then shook her head. “No. It cannot be the same.” She focused back on Kalecgos. “The child is sick?”

“That’s what they’ve said.”

Alexstrasza went quiet again.

“… Didn’t you say Wrathion was sick?”

“I did.”

Kalecgos looked at the letter, then at her. “You don’t think -”

“Coincidences are not things to be brushed aside, Kalecgos.” She rose, her red robe fluttering gracefully about her. “I would like to see this black dragon. Perhaps it is not too late for her, as it was almost too late for Wrathion. And the sphere -” She hesitated. Kalecgos studied her. Did she seem… worried? “I would like to see it as well.”

He nodded. Quickly, Kalecgos rolled the letter back up and slipped it into one of his pockets at his blue tunic. The bird stared at him.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” he said to the falcon, then went to his desk. He struggled to find a good inkwell and quill, and struggled even more to find a clean sheet of parchment.

When he did, he scrawled a quick, crude message.

Thank you. Coming shortly.

Kalecgos

He frowned at it but shook his head, rolled it back up, and handed it to the falcon. It would have to do.

The bird peeped at him again, spread its wings, and dove down the wall.

“Must you finish work before?” Alexstrasza asked. She stood poised by the door.

Kalecgos smiled. He spread his arms. “Look how busy I am,” he joked. Alexstrasza stared blankly. He sighed and lowered his hands. “Yes. I’m ready. Are you?”

She nodded, and the two descended the stairs quickly.

Kalecgos was almost in disbelief. Just a handful of hours ago he’d hoped he’d be getting at least one message that day with some vague, exciting news – and now here was Alexstrasza beside him, a discovered black dragon at the Temple of the White Tiger, and an odd artifact that was waiting for him to interpret.

Not like he had the best dealings with odd artifacts. He frowned. Surely this couldn’t be as worse as the last.

He shrugged it off as they exited the tower and went to the side of the Wall. The sinking sun shone bright behind them from beyond Towlong.

“Sir?” Asked one of the Alliance guards. He smiled at her kindly.

“We are going to the Temple of the White Tiger. Something has… arisen. Quickly. I do not know when I will be back.”

The guard nodded.

Alexstrasza was waiting for him patiently. Kalecgos shifted into his dragon form, stretched out his blue, webbed wings against the cooling air, and as he lifted into the sky Alexstrasza followed in her own true form, and together they flew off to the mountains of Kun-lai.

—-

The forest went on and on, even after hours of careful, quiet walking through the thick bush, weaving through the thick-bellied trees, and crouching behind the ferns where, this deep inside, grew as high as Rexxar was tall. It seemed endless up in these cliffs; Rexxar wondered how many times they had come close to reaching the edge only for some new track to sway them away.

The half-orc knelt, now, to brush his hand over one of the spiky bushes; purple flowers dotted across its dark green surface. A handful of leaves near the surface of the thick plant bent back, and it was these the hunter ran his thumb over, his touch as gentle as his large hands could manage. The leaves were strangely warm underneath his skin, and bounced back to their folds when he let go.

Rexxar hummed once, thoughtfully, to himself. Someone had moved passed here and brushed them back, the only just. They were being careful.

He rose to his feet. Behind him, one of the dragons breathed out hard with impatience or with withheld tension. The nether-drakes, despite now being in human form, were giving off too much static, as well, belaying their nerves. Rexxar shook his head as he rounded to face them; fierce protectors, slow to rile but when angered, hard to stop, the nether-drakes – but easily spotted and scented.

“Someone has passed through here,” the half-orc mumbled as he turned to the group. Ylaria, her black hair awry across her face, watched him with narrowed, intense eyes with her hands clasped tightly behind her back. Thalarian wasn’t looking at him, but instead around them with his eyes wide as if waiting for something to pounce, and the two nether-drake twins, identical even in movement, nodded to him.

“The bear,” Thalarian whispered hoarsely. His eyes flickered back to rest, finally, on Rexxar – and a good thing, too. His rolled-eyed looking had been unnerving. “Any word from the bear?”

“No,” Rexxar said, shortly. He nodded his head to the pathway near the bent-leaved bush. “This way. Mind your feet. The grass crunches wildly.”

“A ridiculous request,” Ylaria quipped as Rexxar turned back and began to half-walk, half-crouch through the foliage while the others followed. “The grass will crunch anyway. Flight would be easier.”

Rexxar grunted. Ylaria went silent as if realizing her voice was too loud here in this silent wood. The drake was too impatient.

Quietly, without the slightest clack of wood and bone, he withdrew his bow again to string up a readied arrow.

This was the fourth time he had picked up the trail; the rogues, as they had been in the battlefield, were overwhelmingly skilled. Their tracks, when found, were hardly more than a scuff of in the dirt or a bent leaf, as the last clue had been; a hunter less renowned than Rexxar would not have been able to find them, surely.

The drakes were quiet behind him. They made little sound.

They rounded around a thick barrier of closely growing trees and made their way up a gentle slope that soon leveled out once again. Rexxar kept his eyes trained on the ground in front of him. The smell of the forest thickened in these deeper reaches, and the great canopy above only intertwined and grew taller and heavier. Little light slipped through. Not even the kaliris called out any longer.

It was, as it had been for hours, slow-going.

Rexxar mulled quietly to himself. Had this not been the same forest he had first met the strange Baron Sablemane? He briefly glanced around. There were many forests in Blade’s Edge, despite the majority of the landscape made up of the barren, dusty tan valleys and spiked hills.

The Cenarion Expedition had been stationed upon this rise. He hummed to himself. Yes – this was the wood that Rexxar had introduced himself to the mage.

Dragon, he reminded himself. Introduced himself to the dragon.

Of course the alchemist was a dragon. Sablemane’s strange behavior, his haughty air, his ability to grab the essence of dragon-flame, a rare commodity, out of thin air, had all pointed to it. Rexxar’s earlier educated guess, kept secret to himself, had apparently been right.

He frowned. It was then no curiosity as to why Sablemane had hated Gruul as much as he did – a hate that far surpassed Rexxar’s. The impaled trophies of the rotting carcasses of the grown dragons upon the spiked wall at Dragon’s End and the other monstrosities done to other smaller corpses of the Black Dragonflight scattered about Gruul’s ogre camps were stomach-twisting even to those not of dragonkind; the half-orc could not imagine what the feeling would be like to a family member.

But to station himself near those bodies, right near the Circle of Blood? Rexxar shook his head, the tassels of his wolf-skin swinging. Torturous. Why had Sablemane – the half-orc corrected himself – Sabellian done such a thing to himself?

At least the bodies were gone, now. Rexxar still recalled the day when he had looked out from the forest cliff and seen not the bodies, but instead only great red stains smeared across the spikes, and the chains which had held the decapitated black dragon’s head loose and savagely broken apart – and then the smell of burning, and the large plume of black smoke that had reached up high into the nether-sky for days and nights until the whole of the valley smelled of smoke.

Rexxar sighed. What had befallen Sabellian now? His fingers twitched against the taut string of his bow. If only he had -

He stopped so quickly Thalarian bumped into him. The young dragon began to mumble a quick, clumsy apology when the half-orc swept his hand up for silence.

A gentle crunch had caught his attention to the north. Rexxar rose from his crouch but aimed his bow. The leaves above shook quietly with the hot nether-wind from above, the current so high the gust did not reach the party down below. The dragons’ breathing was the only sound in the forest. No birds called; no water trickled. It was as if time itself had stopped.

Crunch.

Closer, now. Thalarian took a sharp intake of breath. Rexxar hardly heard it. His large fingers curled gently around the notch of the arrow; its white hawk feathers, shed from Spirit, tickled at his palm.The entirety of the forest, stretching out in front, sharpened into hyperfocus: every leaf, every bit of fuzzed fern, every speck of brittle grass…

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Closer still. The large bushes to Rexxar’s northeastern side began to rattle. He aimed -

A large brown snout ruffled out through the foliage, then two thick-set, shaggy shoulders.

Rexxar dropped his aim and allowed himself a tired sigh.

“Misha,” he called out, as the bear forced her way through the bush with a grunt and a shaking of her front legs. Though the brush rattled, it made little sound, as if only the wind sighed through its leaves. “You did not give me any forewarning it was you.”

The bear eyed him with her yellowed eyes, grumbled to herself, and lumbered over. It was only then, as she trudged towards him and into a lighter patch of the wood, that Rexxar saw what she had clenched in her maw – an arm, ripped off clean from the shoulder, and clad in black, skin-tight leather. Blood seeped down from the open flesh.

Rexxar and the drakes, as one, jolted up from their crouches.

Misha had found them, and by the way the arm still bled, they were close by.

The bear dropped the arm at Rexxar’s feet and sat on her haunches with a snort. The half-orc stroked the top of her head.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. Misha harrumphed. He looked down at the arm. It was a human or blood elf’s by the look of it; perhaps it had been a scout, and with Misha’s inability to speak, Rexxar could only guess – but the fact that no one had pursued the bear concreted the half-orc’s idea.

“Lead us.”

The bear rose and turned back the way she had come.

Rexxar and the drakes followed. The half-orc could hear Ylaria’s quickened heart behind him and one of the nether-drake’s heightened static pulling at his bare back. He nearly growled but withheld it. Foolish to bring them. He could have done this on his own and perhaps with one drake, zipping arrows from the shadows.

The bear led them through the forest. She jumped up over an enormous fallen tree, twice the size of the drakes’ dragon forms in width, muscles rolling underneath her fur, and lumbered across it to jump down on the other side. The forest here was lighter, and the canopy began to unravel again, allowing in more of the red from the nether-streams. It cast an ominous crimson glow against the forest, as if the leaves were bathed in blood.

She stopped a mile into their walk. With a snort Misha sent her nose to the ground and snuffled like a bloodhound, then trailed away to round around a deep purple-barked tree. A fleshy crunch came from her hidden mouth, and she pulled backwards; a heavy sliding followed.

The bear swung with a mighty twist of her neck and head and practically threw her quarry in front of Rexxar. It collapsed limply at his feet – a body of a human in the same black leather and his right arm missing. His shoulders bore wide claw marks from Misha’s claws – she had seemed to have tackled him from behind – and his throat was bore open so deep his esophagus shimmered palely in the gutting of red. His eyes were closed. A quick death.

“Well done, my friend,” the half-orc whispered. The bear grunted, pleased.

He bent down, sheathing his bow, as a glint of red caught his eye – there, strapped to the rogue’s forehead by a black band, was a crimson gem. There was no doubt that this was the same sort of gem Samia had mentioned, the odd crystal that allowed communication and vision to their vicious Black Prince.

Rexxar pulled the band from the rogue’s head and straightened. With a pinch of his fingers, he popped the gem out of its holder and tossed the black leather band off to the side to be forgotten. The jewel looked insignificant; it was only the size of one of Rexxar’s eyes. It was dull and lifeless in color and cold but smooth underneath his thumb.

He dropped it.

“What are you doing?” Feraku whispered wildly. “Aren’t those -”

“Misha – crush.”

The bear slammed her paw down on the gem. A sharp crack crunched beneath her claws; she pulled back and below, impaled into the grass and dirt, half-way hidden beneath the crushed grass surrounding it, was the remains of the gem, burst into a dozen different shards.

“Ah.” The nether-drake took a breath. “My apologies.”

Rexxar glanced behind his shoulder; Feraku held himself so stiffly the half-orc thought he would shatter with a simple touch.

Ylaria, however, had her back hunched and her eyes trained over Rexxar. Thalarian stood, almost hiding, behind her.

This would be interesting.

“I can smell them,” Ylaria murmured, so low that the high wind nearly snatched her words away.

“Good. We’ll fan out. Ylaria, lead on. Misha and I will take the left. Thalarian, Feraku – the right.”

Ylaria swept passed Rexxar with two bounding strides, her dark blue cloak lilting behind her. She disappeared beyond the trees.

Feraku and Thalarian glanced at each other, squinted in a near mirror-like way, and trudged forward to slink into the bushes to the right.

Rexxar nodded to himself. Misha looked up at him patiently as he drew his bow.

“Let us end this for our friend Sablemane. Shall we, Misha?”

The bear gave an enthusiastic, rumbling growl and the two started forwards with nothing but the quiet to lead them on.

It was easy to disappear into the bush. Rexxar hunkered down and tested the tautness of his bow’s string as they looped through the thick leaves, their fuzzed ends brushing against Rexxar’s skin. Vines snaked at the half-orc’s waist, at his ankles; he ignored them and continued on.

He stopped as he smelled a gentle scent of fire; hidden underneath some sort of cloaking spell, no doubt, because of its muted qualities, so subtle that Rexxar, for a moment, thought he had imagined it – but no, there it was again as the wind shifted ever so slightly. It was just ahead.

Rexxar shook his head. The rogues were careful, but not careful enough.

He crouch so low his knees were inches away from buckling underneath his weight, but with his bulked muscles at his thighs he could easily hold himself aloft as he tip-toed quietly through the underbrush.

One step. Two steps. Three steps. Misha followed him. Four steps -

He stopped. The brush was thinning. Next to him was a large, thick-bodied tree; he thanked the spirits for the luck and half-way ducked behind it.

Cautiously, carefully, he peeked out.

A small clearing was just ahead – if “clearing” was the right word for it at all. While the leafy, fuzzy ferns and the dark hued trees still grew in the space beyond, they were lesser, smaller, and only dotted the clearing instead of bunching together like they did in the majority of the wood, giving room for breathing distance. A small fallen log lay in a heap, overgrown with thick purple moss, a moss Rexxar knew the arakkoa often used for their poisons, and an enormous chunk of what seemed to be raw fel iron grubbed up from the grass; perhaps it was the cursed metal that debilitated nature’s growing.

A little, sparsely smoking fire burned in the center. It made no sound Rexxar could discern. Above it roasted a plucked bird, dripping with grease.

And, scattered all about, were the rogues.

Rexxar glanced around quickly. There were eight in total – less than the half-orc would have thought, but more than he could have handled on his own. Perhaps some had died from later wounds from the drakes. It didn’t matter. There were eight here, and there were eight to kill.

Three sat lounging on the log, while two surrounded the fire, tending to it and the small meal. The other remaining four flanked the entirety of the makeshift hideaway, hands clasped on each of their respected weapons – crossbow, sword, dagger, axe – and their eyes trained outward. Bandages wrapped around each of the Blacktalons – on an arm, a neck, a leg. Every one of them seemed to have sustained some injury.

Good, Rexxar thought. They were weaker.

He chanced another look around the quiet encampment. To his left would be Ylaria; to his right, Thalarian and Feraku. He hoped they had taken the incentive to fully surround the clearing, or else there would be an opening for the rogues to escape when the ambush began.

“Left sounded pretty angry, didn’t she?”

Rexxar focused back on the Blacktalons. The one to speak was one of those standing by the fire; a female human with blonde hair tied up in a strict, tight bun and a makeshift eyepatch made of white gauze taped to her face. She idly turned the cooking bird.

“Yes,” grunted one of the Blacktalons on the log, a worgen with tan fur and a white underbelly. One of his pawed feet seemed to be twisted at an awkward angle. “But I dun’ blame her. We have failed the Prince.”

“What did His Majesty expect, really?” The human mumbled. She placed her finger against the food as if to test its temperature before pulling it back, wiping the grease from the muscle against the ground. “We didn’t know there would be that many. He probably didn’t know there were that many.”

“No. I don’t think so,” murmured a green-skinned orc who was looking out at the forest; his back was to Rexxar. “Otherwise we would have been prepared.”

“If only we’d gotten that big bitch,” the worgen growled. “We woulda’ gotten to the hatchlings. The Black Prince would have been pleased with at least that.”

The human cast a vacant glare in the worgen’s direction before her dark, visible eye went back to the fire. “You forget Rexxar.”

“Rexxar! Now there was a surprise!” Said another human, a man with pale skin whose hair was bound in a ponytail. The half-orc realized he had been the one to disappear at the cave after falling off of Samia and seeing two of his comrades fall from Misha and Rexxar’s own arrows. “I thought he was dead.”

“No. Just gone,” mumbled the orc.

“Fled from the Horde, you mean,” the human prodded. The orc glanced back at the human with a glare.

“Stop it,” the woman at the fire snapped, and the orc and human eyed each other for a moment longer before the orc huffed and looked away. The hunter wondered if she was the leader of the band. “Listen, yeah. Rexxar was a surprise. Especially with him helping out the beasts. We can say that much and be done with it.”

They went quiet. Rexxar slid his thumb over the end of his arrow, the feathers cool underneath his touch.

The human looked over at one of the other Blacktalons who had not spoken; the male blood elf was busy shearing something in his hands with a red-hued dagger decorated with a golden hilt, typical of Sin’dorei weaponry. From Rexxar’s angle, he could not see what the rogue was cutting with it.

“How much more of that do you need?” The human asked.

The blood elf said nothing; he glanced down at his lap. Rexxar could just make out a hint of dull, sickly purple peeking out from the rise of the rogue’s thigh.

“A handful,” the blood elf replied with a surprisingly deeper voice that the hunter would have expected. He went back to cutting.

“Liam should be back with them soon,” the human replied. She looked away to grab the stick of bird from the fire and with a quick snap of her wrist, pulled it back from the fire and laid it on the grass and off of the dirt. The worgen stared at it. “The arakkoa’s outpost wasn’t too far.”

“Let’s hope,” the blood elf mumbled. He eyed the sharp point of his dagger, grumbled something to himself, then brushed some debris from his pants – it looked to be some sort of leaf.

“And you’re sure all of that can poison the whole of the water supply?” The worgen asked. “Seems a bit of a tiny lot.”

The blood elf looked up at the worgen with wide, exasperated eyes. “If I needed more, I would tell you, wouldn’t I?” He snapped, then looked back down at his hands. “The poison killed the Netherwing leader with just a dab on the end of my weapon. A cup of Spirit Bane in that small river will kill anything that drinks from it.” He looked up again with a scowl. “I do hope that is the only place of water you were able to find, Alexander.”

The worgen scoffed. “Aye. ‘Acourse it was. This place is as dry as any desert. The dragons don’t have much else to drink from unless they flew over to Zangarmarsh.”

The blood elf grumbled and fell silent.

Rexxar scowled. Spirit Bane. Of course. It, like the moss growing on the log the rogues sat on, was often used by the arakkoa in small doses to invite hallucinations of their spiritual but fallen leader, Terokk. In large doses? Fatal.

He felt foolish in forgetting it when dealing with Neltharaku, but the herb was often forgotten as an actual poison and usually referred to as a hallucinogen. Clever of the rogues to use a lesser known poison. Too clever.

But to poison the water supply – Rexxar felt his fingers, unbidden, tighten on the arrow. The worgen was right. Blade’s Edge was sapped of water; the river that ran on the other side of the cliff to the west was just about the only source of water in this broken valley. It was why the raptors thrived here; the animals could hold water for days until they had to trudge up the mountain peak to reach the river that flowed down into Zangarmarsh. The wolves, too, had adapted – and the dragons, of course, could fly easily.

To poison the entire river was to poison not only the dragons, but the entire wildlife population of Blade’s Edge, a population that was low enough already in this broken place. And to kill the wildlife was to kill the dragons, too, for those that did not drink; no prey meant no food.

Clever.

But Rexxar was not about to let that happen. So much mindless death – and for what? This Black Prince’s right to be the last of his kind, as Samia had said? It made little sense. Rexxar shook his head, but only just. He was glad Sablemane – Sabellian – did not share his relative’s meaningless blood-craze.

He aimed his arrow at the blood elf; the rogue would be the first to go. Rexxar couldn’t allow him to escape with that handful of Spirit Bane and risk poisoning any others besides Neltharaku.

Rexxar waited. He took a breath. Misha went tense at his side. The tip of his arrow pointed straight at the elf’s neck as he took into account the lack of wind.

Another breath. His fingers tightened on the string.

“At least you managed to get some of it in beforehand,” the worgen drawled suddenly.

“Not as much as I wanted,” the blood elf mumbled. “It won’t kill the big ones. We should have waited until I was done.”

“But it’ll get the smaller ones, yeah?”

“What? Oh. Yes. There’s a chance.”

Rexxar froze.

They already had poisoned the water.

The worgen chuckled. “Well, good. Wish I could wring the beasties’ necks myself, but -”

The bush behind him exploded in a scream. Half-shifted into drake form barreled Ylaria from the brush - in mid-air her transformation completed with a thick plume of rolling black smoke just as she collided, talons first, with the worgen, and the impact sent both of them rolling hard into the dirt.

Rexxar let loose his arrow at the blood elf the moment the rest of the drakes burst from their hiding places. The arrow flew and lodged itself into the blood elf’s throat. The rogue gave a startled gurgle; he jolted to his feet, dropping his hand full of the purple Spirit Bane to flail at the protrusion at his throat.

Misha was on him in an instant. Her claw swept out and struck him down as Rexxar jumped into the clearing and drew another arrow. He sent it flying at one of the guards who had flanked about the outpost. The arrow nearly hit Thalarian, who sailed underneath it to dive at the woman by the fire – but it hit the Blacktalon Rexxar had aimed at in the back, and the half-orc shot three more before the rogue even had a chance to turn around to face him.

Chaos erupted in three heartbeats. The blood elf was dead, collapsed over the log; the watcher by the forest, down on his face. Rexxar sheathed his bow and ducked as a scream of a swinging sword flew over his head, narrowly missing him. To his side, Ylaria was attempting to rip apart the worgen, Feraku was taking down the guards as Rexxar had did, streaming, crackling nether-magic bursting forth from his paws as he spun across the clearing, and Thalarian was struggling with the leader.

The half-orc drew his axes, rose from his crouch and struck them forward in a deadly, whistling arc as he turned to face his attacker. The human, the one with the ponytail, jumped out of the way with a wild grin on his face.

The rogue swept out his sword again, and Rexxar was quick to block. The two traded blows, one after the other – the Blacktalon’s fluid and almost graceful in movement, and Rexxar’s furious and steeling against the wind.

The human was swift; Rexxar could say that. His twin axes sailed harmlessly around the rogue as if the human was made of ever-moving water.

The half-orc snarled. They spoke of the dragons as beasts – but to kill innocent hatchlings with a coward’s weapon of poison? Rexxar swung hard after a feint with one axe, causing the human to jump up close.

These were the real beasts.

Rexxar took great pleasure in the shaking impact of his axe slamming, embedded, into the rogue’s shoulder.

The human gave a yell of pain and jerked back, but the axe was too far deep. Rexxar ripped it from the muscle. Blood sprayed across his face. The rogue snarled and swung his sword in a last-ditch move of ferocity.

Rexxar smacked it out of the way and took off the Blacktalon’s head with a clean swipe of his other axe.

A burst of nether-magic exploded behind his back. Rexxar whirled. A Blacktalon, the orc, crumpled, a large, smoking hole in his chest. The hunter glanced around; Feraku nodded his great, shark-like head to him in a brisk motion before hurtling himself at two oncoming Blacktalons whose daggers and axes were raised.

Rexxar went to join him. He jumped over the dying, crumpled fire – but Misha was quicker. She appeared from nowhere, like some spirit of the air, and smashed the full force of her body onto the blood elf attacking the nether-drake. The rogue screeched and fell. Misha tore his chest open; her entire front-side was soaked in blood.

Feraku and the other Blacktalon were trading blows, magic against steel. He had it handled. Rexxar turned to find his next quarry as Thalarian gave a high-pitched wail.

The half-orc spun to look. Thalarian stumbled forward, a dagger impaled into his chest, and fell in a heap. The human he had battled, the woman leader, jumped to her feet with blood soaking her face and blond hair.

She saw Rexxar. Rexxar saw her.

The rogue raised her sword. The point dripped with an ugly green poison.

“Misha! The others!” Rexxar snarled.

Misha roared. She loped passed him to come at the remaining Blacktalons to the northern side of the clearing.

Ylaria heard the call and soon joined her; the orange-bellied drake had one eye sown shut, but the tan worgen she had tackled lay in a indistinguishable pile of meat and fur.

Rexxar bolted towards the leader. The Blacktalon met him in the center; their weapons burst against one another in a flurry of white sparks and a shriek of metal.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” the Blacktalon snarled as they traded blows so ferociously the sparks nearly blinded the half-orc as their weapons met again and again. Rexxar couldn’t allow that weapon to even nick him; the poison looked fatal. “You’re helping monsters!”

“No,” Rexxar growled, then managed to slam the hilt of his weapon against the woman’s shoulder. The Blacktalon hissed and stumbled back but in a surge of energy started forward and slammed her heel against Rexxar’s gut.

The half-orc snarled as a surprising prickle of pain and blood busted against his skin; he saw, in the instant the rogue lowered her boot, that it was spiked at the heel with small, deadly, needle-like pieces of steel. The hunter huffed, the pain quickly forgotten in the heart-thrumming spike of adrenaline, and raised his axes again as the woman attacked one more. “The only monsters I see are the ones in this clearing.”

The Blacktalon’s face twisted into a snarl. Her tight bun had come undone; the blood in her hair stained through her pale strands and her blue eyes were bright against the crimson. Their weapons met; the air screeched with the impact.

“You’re an idiot,” the Blacktalon yelled. “An ignorant, blind -”

Rexxar swung his axe at the rogue’s head and she ducked. “Your eyes are blinder than mine,” the half-orc growled.

How long they fought then in silence, their faces twisted, their blood and the blood of others splashed on their skin, their faces, their armor, Rexxar did not know. The forest around them was quiet as if the whole of its spirits had stopped to watch the brutal struggle in the center. The snarls of the drakes resounded against the trees; the yells of the Blacktalons mixed with the cacophony. It was not a beautiful, dancing battle; it was ferocious and bloody and clumsy.

When the drakes stopped snarling, and the Blacktalons stopped yelling, and the only sound was the whistling of the Blacktalon’s sword and Rexxar’s axes, the half-orc hardly noticed – only until great black claws snatched onto the woman’s shoulders and tore her back did Rexxar have a chance to look around, the blood-craze of battle hyperfocusing his eyes, did he see that the leader was the last of the Black Prince’s agents left.

He looked back as Ylaria, the one to grab the human away, struck up her maw as if to tear the leader’s head off.

“Stop,” Rexxar ordered, just as Misha came lumbering over to his side. She looked more red than brown in color, now. Feraku was busy checking for signs of life with the still bodies of the Blacktalons scattered about the clearing; the sudden silence was deafening and unnerving. Rexxar’s heart hammered hard with his remaining, singing adrenaline. “Stop.”

Ylaria snapped her head over. The woman was on the ground, her back pressed into the dirt and grass, and her sword lay just off to the side out of reach. “What?”

Rexxar sheathed his weapons and took a deep breath to steady himself. His muscles shook as if wishing for him to grab his axes again, as if wondering why he had stopped. He forced them to still. The brief battle was over. The half-orc brushed the drying, sticky blood from his forehead and eyes before he went over.

The woman looked at him with steeled eyes. Claw marks from Ylaria’s talons lay etched across her shoulders. Her face remained bathed in blood, and her hair, even more-so. Her chest rose and fell hard – but she did not look afraid.

“Allow her to sit up,” Rexxar murmured. Ylaria scoffed, her claws tightening, but begrudgingly did as she was asked, plucking the woman from her position on the ground and pushing her against the trunk of the nearest tree; her paw remained tight on the rogue’s shoulder to stop her from escaping.

Rexxar knelt to the woman’s level. He felt the static of Feraku behind him. He ignored it.

The woman continued to glare at him. Rexxar studied her.

“The poison in the water is in there now?”

The Blacktalon spat in his face.

Ylaria snarled, but Rexxar shook his head and wiped the spittle from his eyes.

“Feraku – take hold of the rogue. Ylaria. You are the fastest. Go to Samia. Tell her about the water and I will pray it is not too late.”

Ylaria’s fins rose. Suddenly her eyes dilated into their thinnest slits as if she had just remembered the water as the haze of her ferocity died; her claw snatched so quickly off of the Blacktalon that the woman jerked sideways with the movement.

“Go! Now!” Rexxar yelled as Ylaria stood there, frozen to the spot, fear in her eyes.

Ylaria nodded and, in her sudden frenzy, clumsily snapped open her wings and jumped up into the canopy with a surge of air and smashed through the leaves, disappearing into the nether sky above.

Rexxar watched her go with a grim look.

He hoped she would be quick enough.

Feraku took a hold of the Blacktalon; it hardly mattered. The rogue didn’t move. She only watched where Ylaria had disappeared up into the sky.

“That gem on your forehead,” Rexxar said, loud enough where it made the Blacktalon look at him with lidded, hate-filled eyes. “How does it work?”

The rogue stared at him in silence.

The half-orc sighed deeply. “Do not make this hard for us.” He knew his words were wasted. This Blacktalon would say nothing regarding information, and both of them knew it.

“I hear they allow communication – sight. Tell me. What is the fate of Sabellian on Azeroth, if your comrades on that planet have updated you?”

Much to his surprise, the rogue smiled. Her teeth were stained with red.

“Too late,” the rogue said. She shook her head at him. “You’re too late for Sabellian.”

Rexxar felt his heart chill. He scowled. “Explain, or I will take off your head, beast.”

The woman looked around slowly. She shook her head again. “You will kill me anyway.”

“Yes. You are right. I will. But allow yourself to be truthful and honorable before you die, at least.”

The rogue laughed hoarsely. She looked back at him. “You have no idea who I work for, do you?” She murmured. “Truth and honor has little to do with the Blacktalons.” She studied him quietly. She shook her head for the third time. “You’re too late for the water. And you are too late for Sabellian. His head will hang just as the other’s did soon enough.”

Rexxar’s scowl deepened. But her threat had showed one thing – Sabellian wasn’t dead. Yet.

“This Black Prince is a fool.”

“No,” the woman murmured. “No. He isn’t. He is making a new world for us. A perfect world.”

Rexxar stood. He’d heard enough.

The woman understood. She took one last look around, then looked up at the sky, her eyes trailing across the nether-streams as if searching for something there in the stars.

“Make it quick,” she said.

And Rexxar, despite his better judgement, did; he swung his axe into her jugular, and she jerked forward only once before stilling, the blood pooling down her chest.

Feraku let go of her. They stared at her quietly for a moment before Rexxar leaned down and took off the woman’s gem from her forehead. He rose and looked at the small thing in his fingers before pocketing it in the small satchel at his waist; this was the one he would keep.

“Destroy the other gems,” he said to Feraku, and the nether-drake nodded and began to go to the other bodies to crush the jewels so those back on Azeroth would not realize their fates.

A groan from behind took Rexxar from his stupor. He looked behind to see Misha pull, with her teeth, the dagger protruding from Thalarian’s chest. She threw it to the side with a grunt where it lay still in the grass.

“Oh. Thank you, bear,” Thalarian grumbled, eyes closed.

“The injury is bad?” Rexxar asked.

“What? Oh. Oh. No. No, I’m fine,” the young drake stammered, then rose, shakily, to his feet. He lurched forward once then caught himself; Rexxar put a hand on the drake’s shoulder to steady him. Thalarian gave him a toothy smile in thanks before sitting hard on his haunches to stare at the wound across his chest. It was deep, but did not look poisoned or brutal.

“The water!” Thalarian yelled suddenly, so loud that Feraku jolted a sheer foot into the air before alighting back down and glaring at the drake. “The water.” He snapped his head to Rexxar. “We -”

Rexxar nodded briskly. “Feraku – the gems?”

“Destroyed.”

“Ylaria has gone forward to warn Samia. Let’s follow.” He tried not to look at the fear in the black drake’s eyes; the half-orc could not afford to feel panic, either.

“You may ride on my back,” Feraku said. “Quicker.”

Rexxar nodded. In a quick hop he slid onto the drake’s back and found the nether-energy surprisingly easy to ignore underneath him.

With a great bound they burst up into the sky; Misha would follow on foot.

The wind screamed across Rexxar’s face as they left behind the bloodied field, forgotten.

Please, he prayed. Let us be fast enough.

—-

Anduin exited the cloth tent and breathed in deep the fresh air, thick with the honey-like smell of amber from Sik’vess and the sharpness of the grass, with relief. The gentle wind was cool against his face and he opened his eyes to look out at the sinking sun to the west; the grey sky was thick with its black clouds, but Anduin could just make out the beginning winks of dim stars peeking through the high fog.

How long had he been inside that tent? It’d felt like hours. Anduin shook out his head, bangs awry, as he aimed to shake off the numbness in his eyes and waist from sitting so long. His bad leg was quick to protest.

“You look better.”

Anduin smiled tiredly to himself, wiped it off of his face, and glanced over to his side – then up. King Varian stood watching him, one hand on Shalamayne. He’d managed to rub the dirt from his face; maybe someone had mustered up enough bravery to tell the King of Stormwind that the mud was making him look ridiculous.

“I feel better,” Anduin replied. He looked down at his left arm. It was heavily wrapped in bandages – thick white gauze, not the leafy shaman wrappings Ella had used before – and applied with a cooling salve to lessen the pain. It covered the entirety of his forearm, stopping just above his wrist.

The draenei had healed it wonderfully. The gash was closed, now, and the fel gone – but it still hurt, despite all that, just as his burned back did, and his leg most of all.

Varian nodded. “Good. I hope you’re ready to go.”

Anduin bit the inside of his cheek. “I guess I am,” he said with a lower voice. He closed his eyes, sighed, and reopened them. “I just wish it was on better circumstances.”

Varian nodded. “So do I.”

Anduin glanced around. The camp was being packed up. The other tent beside his own was coming down, pulled apart by a team of three soldiers. The gryphons were hooked up to the two remaining harpoon guns. The fires were out, and the scent of food was long gone in the chillier wind. Most of the soldiers milled about the gryphons, readying their weapons, their armor, their supplies, for lift-off. Anduin smiled as he saw a flash of white against the black and brown of the other mounts; his gryphon had come along. He was glad to see her unharmed.

He sighed and, begrudgingly, looked over to the side. The prince could just make out the ditch where Sabellian had been near, and some of the Blacktalons around it. Had the dragon shifted into human form?

“Father,” Anduin began. “Will you wait for me just for a couple more minutes?” He looked over at the king earnestly. “I only want to say goodbye.”

Varian glanced over at Sabellian and nodded once. Anduin was glad he didn’t hesitate with the answer; it meant the king knew how much being able to say a farewell meant to his son. “We’ll wait.” Varian eyed Anduin with a suspicion the prince knew to be false and for humor. “But don’t run off.”

Anduin smiled. “You don’t need to worry about that, Father.”

“Oh? That’s news to me. I’ll have to remember that the next time I find you sneaking out of your room like some thief in the night.”

The prince’s smile grew. “I hope you do,” he quipped. Varian huffed and motioned impatiently to Sabellian. Anduin took it as his queue to leave; the blond nodded at his father than made his way to Sabellian.

It, thankfully, was not too far a walk, though in the brief stroll Anduin’s reinjured leg began to shake at the knee. The prince took a deep, steadying breath and forced himself through the pain – as he always did.

As he got up close, he saw that, indeed, Sabellian had shifted. Anduin felt his throat tighten as he caught sight of the elder dragon; it was not altogether an uplifting sight.

Small chains wrapped around the dragon’s neck, his waist, his arms, tying him back in an awkwardly stiff position, debilitating movement. His head was drooped down at his chest. His black hair fell around his face and shielded his eyes. His shoulders and back slouched. He looked altogether broken, a shattered image of pride lost.

Unease pulled at Anduin’s stomach. He glanced to the large ditch to Sablemane’s side – created when the elder dragon had slammed into the ground, chest-first – where the piles of chains that the Blacktalons had stripped off lay loose. Even from where he was standing, Anduin could still hear the buzzing of the Titan technology. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand; he couldn’t imagine what they felt like, much like how he couldn’t imagine how they would feel over his entire body.

Anduin frowned and looked back at Sablemane. Each of the Blacktalons had their weapons aimed at him – all firearms – but the prince thought it hardly mattered. The dragon looked like he was barely breathing.

He should have felt some victory at seeing the person to have killed Right, to have tortured Wrathion into near-submission, to have cut open his arm and kidnap Anduin himself, beaten and tied up like this. But Anduin didn’t.

Sighing, the prince made his way over to Sablemane.

One of the Blacktalons saw him coming. The human shook his head at him. Anduin recognized his boyish face; it was the one who had guarded him during Sabellian’s attack on the harpoons. He’d wiped the blood off of his cheeks, though some red staining remained across his tanned skin.

“Go away, prince,” the Blacktalon ordered. He gestured out to the Alliance camp while keeping a firm grip on his slim black rifle.

“I only want to talk to him for a moment,” Anduin said. He didn’t smile. “It won’t take very long.”

“Beat it,” one of the other Blacktalons, a male blood elf with red hair, snapped with more malicious intent. He held an ebony crossbow with a dragon’s curled claw as the handle. “We’ve been ordered to allow no ‘visitors.’ That means you, too.”

Anduin looked at the elf evenly. “I don’t plan to release him,” he said. “Feel free to shoot me if I try to,” the prince added – perhaps with a bit more snark than he had intended, but he didn’t mind.

The blood elf grumbled but didn’t argue further.

Anduin took it as incentive to take a handful of steps closer to the elder dragon. Sablemane did not move. Up close, the prince could see large blood stains blooming against the dragon’s robes – one against his shoulder, the other, against his waist.

The harpoons. Anduin locked his jaw.

His own wound began to beat as if trying to remind him that the beast in front of him had given it to the prince himself. Anduin shook his arm out and ignored the painful contracting of his healing muscles. It was unfair to think that way.

“I’m sorry,” Anduin murmured. “I tried to reason with Wrathion.”

Anduin heard one of the Blacktalons – he didn’t see who – snort. The prince balled his hand in a fist before loosening it; it was the only show of frustration that he allowed to show.

Sablemane didn’t move for a moment. Anduin thought that the dragon simply hadn’t heard him when Sablemane rose his head up slowly and locked his dulled orange eyes down on Anduin without the slightest hint of emotion -

And for a brief flash of memory, Katrana Prestor stood in front of him with those same emotionless, faraway eyes. Broken eyes.

Anduin’s heart went cold. The foggy, ill-remembered form of Onyxia vanished to be replaced by Sablemane once again.

“I believe apologies are always stupidly given if they are spoken late,” Sablemane murmured. His voice was hoarse and strained and tired.

The dragon exhaled hard through his nose then blinked once, slowly. He said nothing else - he only continued to stare at Anduin with the same half-way broken look to his gaze; it felt like Sablemane was not altogether in the present, like some part of him was focusing elsewhere.

Anduin swallowed hard. Sablemane said nothing else. He just kept staring with his eyes lidded and his look glossy.

“I – are you feeling alright?”

Sablemane’s eyes flickered. For a brief heartbeat for a moment, his eyes cleared and focused, and the faraway look disappeared. He glared at the prince.

“Do I look alright?” The dragon snapped. A low growl grumbled at Sablemane’s chest and Anduin could see one of Sablemane’s hands tied behind his back twitch, his fingers curling – but the alchemist soon stopped moving as he swallowed hard and the sudden anger fell away from his face to be replaced by exhaustion. Did Anduin imagine it, or had there been a flicker of fear in the dragon’s eyes? “Use your mind, if you have one up there, little boy.”

Anduin studied him. He bit the side of his cheek worriedly. Sablemane’s eyes started going unfocused again.

Maybe… maybe it was the remnants of the Sha of Hate at Sik’vess, Anduin told himself. He eyed the destroyed mantid structure with some distaste before looking at Sablemane again. The dragon had been clearly affected by it when inside the tree; Anduin quickly recalled Sablemane’s sunken, darkened eyes and his emotionless, serious gait.

Anduin nodded slowly at the dragon. Sablemane watched him with the faraway, broken look.

“I hope this ends well for you.” Anduin almost winced when the words left his mouth; what a weak sentiment. But what else could he say? He’d done everything he could. He could not let Sablemane go – he could no longer give Wrathion advice, for he’d said all he’d wanted to say to the Black Prince.

“You and I share the same hope, Anduin Wrynn,” Sablemane mumbled. He seemed without any of his other quips – perhaps too tired and too in pain to muck one up. “Do not trip over yourself on the way home.”

“Well - thank you.”

Sablemane studied him. Anduin, without anything else to say and still with some unease from Sablemane’s look, bowed, as an equal, to the dragon, nodded at him, then turned to find Wrathion.

It didn’t take very long. Wrathion was off to the side, his back to Sablemane. He was looking up at Sik’vess, alone.

Wrathion tilted his head as Anduin’s feet crunched against a patch of burned grass. He turned and smiled brightly when he saw Anduin.

“Come out all this way?” Wrathion said as Anduin got up in front of him, only a foot away from the Black Prince. The dragon’s eyes flickered over to the camp and his smile wavered; no doubt he was taking in that it was being packed up. “Ah.” Wrathion looked back at the blond. “You’re leaving.”

“Yes,” Anduin sighed. “I wanted to say goodbye before I left.”

Wrathion smiled, but it hardly reached his eyes. “I would expect nothing less,” the dragon said. He took a step closer to Anduin; the blond could feel the gentle heat coming off of him.

“But – before I do,” Anduin started, and Wrathion raised a brow, curious, “have… have you noticed something wrong with Sabellian?”

Wrathion blinked. Judging by his confused expression, that wasn’t the comment he was expecting. He looked over Anduin’s shoulder, squinted at his chained up relative, and shrugged.

“Hardly. Why?” He cast his red eyes over to Anduin suspiciously. “Have you noticed anything, Prince Anduin?”

Anduin hesitated. Saying something might be wrong with Sabellian might only edge on Wrathion’s blind conviction that the dragon was fully corrupt – though Anduin realized, now that Wrathion had come to him earlier to speak, that even the Black Prince was doubting such a fact.

But saying something like Anduin was about to -…

The blond sighed. No. He had to say it.

“I don’t know. I spoke to him – just for a moment,” he added, quickly, as Wrathion’s eyes darkened, “and he seemed… off.”

“Off.”

“Yes.”

Wrathion stared at Anduin as if he’d just said something incredibly stupid. Anduin glared. “What?”

“Of course he seems ‘off.’ I suppose I looked ‘off’ when I was tortured, too,” Wrathion said with a roll of his eyes. Anduin deepened his glare.

“That’s not what I meant. He -” Anduin frowned. Why was this so difficult to put into words? Saying Sabellian’s eyes reminded him of Katrana Prestor’s was a bad example; Wrathion didn’t know what his sister’s gaze had looked like… and to parallel Sabellian to a corrupt relative would fuel Wrathion’s conviction, too. “He looks… distant?”

Wrathion tilted his head. His eyes went back to look at Sabellian. He frowned.

“You’ve noticed it too, haven’t you?” Anduin prodded. Wrathion flicked his eyes back to the prince with an overdramatic sigh; the dragon rolled back his shoulders and fluffed up his chest like a preening bird.

“I might have,” Wrathion said. “How interesting of you to note my dear brother’s condition, though, my prince,” the dragon added with a humorous smile. “I would have thought you would have told yourself you only imagined it.”

Anduin huffed. He shouldn’t have brought it up, he thought. “I’d just be careful,” the prince said. “Please. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but…” He looked at Wrathion earnestly. “Move away from here, and quickly. I don’t mean to tell you what to do, but I think the Sha might be getting to him.”

That, or the Old Gods – but Anduin shook his head. No. That couldn’t be it. Sabellian hadn’t looked as broken as he did the entire, short time the prince had known him. It had to be the Sha remnants of Sik’vess.

But – hadn’t Left said the Sha was connected to the Old Gods? The unease pulled deeper at the prince’s stomach and grew up into his chest like a coiling snake.

Wrathion narrowed his eyes. “The Sha?” His shoulders grew stiff and his claws tapped against his waist.

“The Sha of Hate. From Sik’vess. It was killed there -”

“I know,” Wrathion harrumphed. He shifted his weight and glanced over at the destroyed tree. He made a humming, thoughtful noise in his throat before he turned back to Anduin with a frown. “I will… keep that in mind.”

Anduin smiled at him, grateful Wrathion wasn’t being difficult, but well-knowing the topic of the Sha was making the dragon uncomfortable. The prince decided to drop it. “Where do you plan to go, though?”

Wrathion’s frown twisted up into a smile. “That, dear prince, is a closely guarded secret.”

Anduin eyed him. “Of course it is.”

Wrathion looked him over. “How able-bodied you look,” the Black Prince commented with a raised brow, changing the subject. “Your injuries are healed, I would imagine?”

“Mostly.”

The dragon’s smile grew into a toothy grin. “Excellent. It is a shame I cannot keep you by my side, Prince Anduin… but your father needs his coddling, just as your citizens do, I assume.”

Anduin smiled tiredly. “I guess so.”

Wrathion lowered his lips over his teeth, and his smile no longer shone with its usual smugness, but with a surprising warmth that made Anduin’s stomach twist and his chest grow almost airy.

“Now. My gem -?”

“I was going to ask you how it worked,” Anduin interrupted. “How do -”

“You’ll find out,” Wrathion chirped, interrupting Anduin as the blond had interrupted him. He looked at the prince slyly. “I am making it a surprise.”

“Wrathion -”

“No, no. You cannot take my fun away from me. I am going to make a game out of it.”

“A game.”

Wrathion grinned. He clasped his hands together and his eyes lit up with a sort of child-like amusement. “Yes.”

Anduin shook his head but he couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped his mouth, despite his attempts to look annoyed at Wrathion’s grinning face. “Alright,” Anduin said, sighing hard and raising a brow at the Black Prince. “Just… don’t do anything… bad with it.”

“I would never do such a thing.”

“I’m sure.”

They smiled at one another, their worries forgotten for a brief moment, all up until a loud yell rang out through the field:

“ANDUIN WRYNN!”

Anduin winced. Varian’s voice was clear even in the distance. Wrathion sighed.

“It seems you’re being beckoned,” Wrathion said. He looked out at the camp with an unhappy look. Anduin frowned.

“If you need me, just – well, you know. The gem,” Anduin said weakly. Wrathion flicked his eyes back to the blond and his smile resurfaced.

“Of course,” Wrathion said.

They stared at each other as if unsure what else to say.

Anduin looked around quickly. Wrathion watched him. No one was around.

Satisfied they were alone, Anduin reached out with his bandaged arm and put his hand against the dragon’s neck; Wrathion’s skin was warm beneath his glove. He smiled at the dragon with all the warmth his own body lacked in comparison to the Black Prince’s.

“Be careful,” Anduin said.

“I am always careful, Prince Anduin,” Wrathion said. Both of the princes had lowered their voices, as if their comments to one another were secrets. “There is no need to worry about me.”

“I think that’s going to be a little hard to do.”

They smiled at one another again – and then both leaned forward at the same instant to kiss. Their lips met. It was a careful movement, at first, until Anduin deepened it just as his hand slid up to run his fingers through the back of Wrathion’s hair, and the Black Prince, not to be outdone, reached out with his good arm to grab Anduin’s sash and pulled him, with a quick, jerking motion closer - so close Anduin could feel the dragon’s heart beat against his own chest.

Wrathion’s fangs grazed against Anduin’s bottom lip; the blond felt the dragon grin against his lips.

They remained that way for a moment, kissing hard then harder, until Anduin pulled back with a small gasp and his heart thumping against his ribs. He felt like it was about to escape from his chest. His vision was edging onto being foggy, and his senses were acutely aware of the Wrathion’s smell, fire and spice, against his own body and the taste of the dragon on his lips.

Wrathion looked nearly as dazed, but was quicker to recover. He grinned lazily at the prince.

“Goodbye, Prince Anduin,” the Black Prince murmured. “I will see you again soon.”

Anduin smiled at him and swallowed hard. He opened his mouth slightly to say something, say anything, but the words died on his throat and he closed his mouth again.

And so the Prince of Stormwind only nodded, smiled at Wrathion again, and made his way back to camp, leaving the Black Prince behind.


	17. Chapter 17

Wrathion, alone, watched the gryphons take off from the field where the Alliance encampment had once been.

The Black Prince had watched it come down as the mortals packed up the harpoons, the cloth tents, the mounts – and now they were finally leaving, a mere half-hour later after he had said goodbye to Anduin.

The dragon ran a thumb across his bottom lip, a small, idle smile growing there. He tilted his head, watching the mounts, led by the large black beast that he knew to be Varian’s, lift from the ground to catch flight into the darkening sky. The sun was nearly down; they would have to fly during the night, a venture that surely they wouldn’t enjoy.

Wrathion searched the flock. Where was – ah. There he was. The bright white of Anduin Wrynn’s gryphon was stark against the brown and tan of the other mounts, and it was that one that the Black Prince watched peel off into the clouds and circle about to head towards the east where the Wall waited stoically, unseeable in the distance and darkness.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, watching Anduin’s gryphon disappear off to the eastern horizon up until the dot of white vanished from view – and in the sudden silence, every quiet noise seemed so loud, that it was a cricket’s musical chirp close by that snapped from from his stare and made him shake his head.

He had see Anduin Wrynn off.

Wrathion breathed out hard. Now to deal with other problems.

Begrudgingly, the dragon turned on his heel and made his way back to the Blacktalon camp he had left behind when the first rogue had pointed out the Alliance were taking flight.

It was just ahead. Wrathion looked up. One of his Blacktalons was attempting to set aflame a pile of bark from Sik’vess, carefully erected into a pile fit to burn for a lengthy period of time. On the side, flanking the meager outpost, the rest guarded – at least, those who were not guarding Sabellian.

Wrathion tilted his head to the side, craning his neck up to look over on the Blacktalon’s shoulders as he continued to make his way into the center of their encampment. Behind the rogue, perhaps a yard away, Sabellian continued to be guarded by the four Blacktalons Wrathion had assigned to him. The dragon’s head was bowed, and the Black Prince was relieved to see that the rogues still positioned their weapons at him.

“Here,” he said off-handedly, flicking his left hand out as he rounded around the rogue, an orc, trying to start the fire. A wisp of flame rocketed from his claws and burst against the tinder; almost instantly it began to smoke, and with a _whoosh_ the bark took to burning.

The orc jerked back in surprise, but bowed his head to Wrathion after he looked up. “Thank you, sir,” he grunted. Wrathion smiled cheekily and continued onward. He had no use for the fire, now.

Humming contently to himself, the Black Prince twirled about on his heel and faced two of the Blacktalons that were guarding the fire. “You,” he said, gesturing widely to the male worgen, “and you,” he motioned to the female human, “I am _starving_.”

“There is deer to hunt,” the worgen said. Wrathion smiled brightly at him. Good. They’d caught on quickly. Oh, he _loved_ these Blacktalons -

Sometimes.

“An hour, Prince,” the worgen promised.

“I am _sure_ you can get it in less time,” Wrathion quipped, his smile remaining.

The worgen bowed his head. “Of course.”

And without so much as another word the worgen swept off to the side with a loping gait and the female human followed, drawing a bow from her back.

Wrathion watched them for a moment, inwardly checking off what else he needed to get accomplished. Food, first. Food was good. _And_ he was tired, but sleep could come later -

His eyes found Sabellian again. Oh. Perhaps that was something he should take care of.

Wrathion bit his bottom lip nervously – until realizing he could still taste Anduin there and his sudden anxiety swept away; his frown lifted back up into a smile. He withdrew his fang but brushed his fingers across his lips before heading over to the guards surrounding his bloodied brother.

“I would feel _much_ better if he was tied further,” Wrathion called out, startling one of the Blacktalons.

“We’ve used all of the chains, your Majesty,” the human said with a frown. “There’s nothing else, unless you’d like us to retrieve other chains -”

“That won’t be necessary,” Wrathion interrupted. He stopped a good, lengthy distance away from Sabellian, carefully remembering the dragon’s earlier outburst and further trying to _forget_ the look in his brother’s eyes that had stupidly caused so much fear in him. Wrathion looked around in an attempt to look anywhere but the other dragon. He hummed thoughtfully. “Ah! There we are. Use one of the harpoons to tie him to. Surely he’s uncomfortable standing up like that,” he added with a small, slightly sarcastic smile.

The Blacktalons nodded. The red-headed blood elf withdrew his gun and placed it across a sash at his hip before going over and heaving the black harpoon up with a grunt. Another Blacktalon joined him, and together they dragged the lengthy spear over to where the elder dragon was standing and impaled it hard into the ground, keeping it upright.

Wrathion watched. He looked over, cautiously, at Sabellian, but the elder dragon hadn’t moved. Was he sleeping? No – Wrathion doubted _that_ …

But he was glad that Sabellian _wasn’t_ active as he’d been. Perhaps he was finally succumbing to the pain of his injuries.

Good, Wrathion thought. He cleared his throat and looked back at the Blacktalons. The blood elf cautiously grabbed the loose ends of the chains that draped down Sabellian’s hands and yanked them back quickly, as if afraid Sabellian would turn and snap at him if he grew to close.

But still Sabellian didn’t move, and the blood elf tied the ends of the chains to the harpoon tightly.

“Be sure to tie the rest,” Wrathion called out. The Blacktalons nodded. “I wouldn’t want him escaping.”

A low growl rumbled from Sabellian. The younger dragon bit his lip. Yes, he’d seen enough.

He turned about and walked back to the camp quickly.

Wrathion frowned. He was missing something. He stopped walking as he neared the fire and stood near its warmth; the dragon squinted at it as if the fire held what he was forgetting in its orange flames -

Ah! He remembered. The dragon looked around, putting his good left hand on his hip as he searched for her.

There she was. Left stood near one of the red-leaved trees that dotted the darkening plains – and Wrathion had not forgotten her earlier mood.

Almost lazily, he made his way over to her. She saw him coming and her back snapped up straightly as she held herself to attention, the grip on her golden, now-scuffed crossbow hardening.

“Left,” Wrathion greeted with a grin. The orc stared at him.

“My Prince,” she murmured.

“I’d rather hoped you would tell me what’s wrong,” Wrathion began. It was little use swerving about the subject when dealing with Left. Better to get straight to it than annoy her.

“Nothing,” Left grunted. She looked away from him and at her crossbow, brushing her hand against the metal in a cursory, unconscious movement.

Wrathion watched her quietly.

“There’s hardly anyone around, Left,” he started again, slower, this time. His grin began to slide from his face. “If there is something you’d like to tell me, now would be an excellent time.”

The orc squinted down at him.

He smiled brightly.

Left took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “I had sent -”

“My Prince!” An alarmed cry called out, and Wrathion turned, annoyed at having Left interrupted.

One of the worgen Blacktalons raised her hand and pointed out to the west. Wrathion looked out to where she was pointing – and saw at least six mounted, armored tigers nearing their small camp.

Wrathion cursed underneath his breath.

“ _Why_ must the Shado-pan attempt to engage themselves in everything?” The Black Prince grumbled. He sighed out dramatically before turning back to Left. “Follow me.”

“Yes, my Prince,” she murmured, and Wrathion was too quick to catch the small, hardly visible look of relief on her face.

The dragon sighed again. Honestly. He hardly needed any more interruptions – but all the same he trudged back down to the fire and watched with annoyance as the Shado-pan rode up, the metal armor on the grey tigers rattling wildly and the beasts themselves breathing hard as if they had been ridden quickly.

The Blacktalons guarding the fire rose their weapons as the Shado-pan approached, kicking up dirt and grass. Wrathion waved them off silently with an impatient flick of his wrist.

The tigers came to a stop before the camp; the beasts snarled at the Blacktalons as the rogues lowered their various firearms, and the Shado-pan pulled back on the reins, controlling their beasts into silence.

Wrathion studied the leader. He didn’t know this pandaren. Unfortunate.

“Greetings, Shado-pan,” he said, loud enough where the entire half dozen riders could hear him. “What might I owe the pleasure?”

The red-furred leader, clad in a red and blue leather cloak, pulled back her grey tiger and moved the beast so its side was to Wrathion. She looked down at him silently; the only sound was the heaving breaths as the tigers caught their breath.

“The Black Prince,” the Shado-pan stated, and Wrathion smiled as he was recognized. “We came to confirm reports.”

“Reports,” he repeated. Wrathion looked the riders over.

The red pandaren nodded and swept her gaze to their right where Sik’vess lay in ruins. The other Shado-pan looked around at Wrathion’s camp, before they, too, looked out towards the destroyed structure.

“Apparently they’re true,” the red pandaren murmured. “We’d heard word along the Wall of the Alliance King searching for purchase of harpoons.”

“Old news,” Wrathion drawled. What did this have to do with him? “The situation has been dealt with accordingly.”

“The young prince has been rescued?” The Shado-pan leader asked, raising a brow.

Wrathion nodded. “Wholly.”

The pandaren looked at Sabellian. She frowned before her eyes once again found Wrathion’s. “The Garrison to the west sent us here to confirm reports of Sik’vess’s destruction.” The reins along her tiger jingled as she readjusted her grip.

“It was destroyed _hours_ ago,” Wrathion said, raising a brow.

“The majority of the Shado-pan are in the Vale, or on the Isle,” the pandaren retorted. She looked at him sharply. “Our slowness is at fault for our numbers still in Townlong.”

Wrathion sighed. “Have you anything else to confirm? I am somewhat engaged, here.”

The Shado-pan looked at one another. One of the soldiers at the back nodded to the female leader, and she frowned. “Black Prince, you would be wise to leave here. We have not sustained an attack from the mantid for very long since their Empress was murdered, but reports show their new Empress has been crowned and their strength regrows. They will not take kindly to a sacred kypari tree’s destruction.”

That was it? Wrathion almost rolled his eyes. “I’m well aware of the mantid, -…?” He looked at her, unsure of her name.

“Fei Li,” she contributed.

Wrathion smiled with his costumed smile. “I’m well aware of the mantid, Fei Li, but we will be leaving in the morning. I don’t think a handful of hours will make a difference.”

“All the same, you may have just opened up more aggression and an excuse for the mantid to attack again,” Fei Li said with a snap to her words, and the Blacktalons stiffened as their prince was spoken to as such.

“ _I_ have not beckoned in ‘aggression,’ dear Fei Li. My brother was unfortunately the beast to destroy Sik’vess.” He gestured with an outstretched hand to Sabellian, who had not moved since being chained to the harpoon and whose stillness was beginning to set Wrathion even more on edge. “If you have complaints, you can argue with him over them.”

Fei Li squinted over at Sabellian. She huffed. “Then simply take the warning I’m giving you. The mantid will not like this.”

“Yes. Thank you. I will take it to heart.”

The Shado-pan snorted at him.

“I’m glad the prince is safe, at least,” she murmured before pulling back on her reins and turning her tiger back to the west, armor clanking. “Don’t be foolish, Black Prince,” Fei Li added, then kicked her heels into the side of her mount. “Shado-pan! Fan out to Sik’vess. We’ll take our scouting to the source.”

The tiger loped off to the kypari tree, and the others were quick to follow.

Wrathion watched irritatedly as they disappeared beyond the blackened horizon, swerving about Sik’vess to near the Dread Wastes.

At least _that_ nuisance had gotten done with quickly.

“You three,” Wrathion said, nodding his head to the nearest trio of Blacktalons. “Let’s humor the Shado-pan, shall we? Scout ahead and keep watch for mantid – I apologize for the boring, senseless job in advance,” he added before swiveling about.

Left stood behind him.

“Let’s continue our chat now that our interruption is very much over,” Wrathion chirped, and made his way back to the red tree.

“You were saying?” Wrathion goaded as they stopped near the trunk. A bird – a hawk, judging by its screaming – called from above. The wind rustled the red leaves in the quiet, and even from their distance from the fire, Wrathion could hear it crackle and pop as it ate away at the bark.

Left drew herself up stiffly. She looked down at Wrathion with a stern, faraway expression.

“Left,” Wrathion said, no longer smiling. “It’s alright.”

The orc grumbled incoherently, bowing her head, ponytail swaying, as she lowered her crossbow in her tense hands and slid it behind her back. She locked it in place with a practice twist of her fingers before her arms came to cross against her chest.

“I’m sorry, my Prince. I have done something without your knowledge or consent.”

Wrathion stared.

When he didn’t say anything, Left looked up from staring at the ground and huffed. She reshifted her arms before continuing, but did not look away from Wrathion, this time. “I sent the remaining Blacktalons you didn’t order to Blade’s Edge to find Right.”

Wrathion stiffened.

“Oh?” The dragon croaked.

Left nodded briskly.

“Did -” Wrathion cleared his throat and looked away to run a hand over his face, taking a deep breath before his red eyes swept back up to the orc. “And did they -?…”

“Yes.”

Wrathion studied her.

“And she’s not -”

“Alive? No,” Left interrupted bluntly.

Wrathion swallowed hard. “Ah,” he murmured, lamely, unsure of what else to say. What else had he been expecting? He swallowed again, unable to get the sudden lodge from his throat.

“The fall killed her instantly,” Left continued with a strangely emotionless voice that only made Wrathion feel worse. “At least, it’s what the Blacktalons I sent believed.”

“Left,” Wrathion said. “You should have shared this with me earlier. When did they – ah – come across her?”

“Yesterday.”

No wonder Left had looked so distant.

“And I’m sorry, my Prince,” the orc continued gruffly. “But you seemed otherwise preoccupied for me to tell you.”

Wrathion stared, startled.

Left must have realized her comment had come out harsh, for she cleared her throat and began again. “I don’t mean offense. You were sick when I sent the Blacktalons to Blade’s Edge and to find Right, and then the Sha took you, and afterwards, the dragon. You had things to focus on.”

Wrathion nodded in silence, but bit the side of his cheek hard. He still should have known, he thought. He swallowed again. The lump hadn’t gone from his throat.

“Where is she?” He asked after a long minute of quiet between them.

“They took her to the Tavern,” Left explained. Her voice had gone quiet. “They had -” She paused. Wrathion watched her. The orc cleared her throat and continued. “They had found her in the river. The water there comes from the Vale – as you’re aware.” Left shifted her weight; Wrathion had never recalled her being so restless. “The properties of it must have… preserved her.”

“Ah.” Wrathion didn’t need to be told what that meant. He looked down at his feet and nudged his heel into a small, fist-sized clump of burnt grass and watched the dust kick up and blow away in the wind. “And they plan to do what with her?”

“A pyre,” Left murmured. “I thought it best.”

Wrathion looked up. “At the Tavern.”

“Yes.”

The Black Prince bit his lip. He looked out to where Sabellian was being held.

“I had hoped to perhaps take Sabellian to Mogu’shan Vaults for holding,” Wrathion started slowly. Left looked at him with a flicker of surprise in her frown. “It is deserted and guarded by Titan technology. An excellent place for a dragon,” Wrathion explained with a forced, false smile that was quick to fall from his face. “Yet the Terrace of the Endless Springs may be another option.”

“The Terrace is still recovering from the Sha of Fear,” Left said.

“So it is. But! The last guardians there might need a bit of help.” He paused, frowning thoughtfully. He had to think that over. “But it _is_ right next to the Tavern, Left.”

The orc saw his point. “You do not need to sacrifice that much for Right -”

“No, no. I’d like to.” Wrathion smiled, but like his last, it disappeared swiftly. “A casual detour won’t be that traumatizing.”

Left studied him. She looked as if she was about to argue, but after a moment, she nodded.

Wrathion had little else to say – and knowing Left, she would want to be alone, as she had been for the past hours, up here by this tree.

He went to turn, but stopped short.

“Left,” Wrathion started awkwardly, and something compelled him to reach out with his left hand and gently place his hand against one of her arms. “I’m sorry.”

Left locked her jaw. She nodded quietly.

Wrathion withdrew his hand, took a deep breath, and made his way back to the fire with the sensation of rocks growing sour in his throat.

—-

Samia crouched so low to the ground her red belly nearly brushed the rock beneath her.

To her right stretched the abandoned settlement of Sylvanaar, the night elf outpost erected years prior when the mortals had come across the Dark Portal in leagues. Now it lay quiet, the inhabitants gone, no doubt returned to their home; ivy curled up the purple and silver buildings and, left unattended, the structures were slowly beginning to crumble as nature reclaimed it.

Samia mostly ignored it. In front of her was the river that ran through this grassy part of Blade’s Edge – the only source of water in the broken landscape, beginning near the north of Sylvanaar’s outer encampments and snaking through to fall down the spikes and into Zangarmash below.

A pack of black-pelted raptors drank greedily from the river, and it was them that Samia stared down. She was positioned on one of many of the rock bridges that swept over the dusty valley behind her, and halfway hid herself behind the thick, light-bodied trunks of the thriving trees, trees that boasted the highest foliage in Blade’s Edge thanks to the work of the forgotten night elves who had left.

Samia was glad for them. In the bright green, her black hide was a sharp contrast, but at least with the trees she could hide – somewhat. And the wind facing away from her didn’t hurt, either.

She could have easily swept down and snatched the raptors, but her injuries had only worsened the longer she had ignored them. The wound in her chest and back pulsed even now, and she held back a wince as she moved forward, tail swinging idly, as she closed the distance between her and her prey. Flying would have been difficult, and the strain would have taken up more energy than she would have liked.

Ambush was a much more easier tactic to do – and with the amount of raptors she needed to kill to feed the very hungry brood, who were still barred from hunting themselves until Rexxar returned with news of the rogues’ death in the prey-filled forests, she would need all the energy she could muster.

The wind shifted, and she stopped, one claw extended into the air. The raptors still did not sense her. They snapped and quorked at one another, the tiny black claws at their short arms tensing and twitching as if they had a mind of their own.

The pack continued to drink heavily from the river. No doubt they’d traveled far from the valley – where the raptors often roamed – to get their fill from the singular watering hole in Blade’s Edge.

Samia squinted. Four would do, she supposed. The pack was composed of at least a dozen, and the four she had her eyes on looked sickly. They were away from the water, having already drank beforehand, but swayed on their feet and had their heads bent as if they were too exhausted to stand upright.

The dragon moved forward again. For her size, she was surprisingly quiet.

She wrinkled her nose as she caught the musty scent of lynx. This particular wood was teeming with them, and she was outright surprised she hadn’t run into any. Perhaps the raptors had scared them off.

The pack was only two yards ahead, now. Samia lowered her crouch despite the wince in her closed-off injuries. A leap forward would close the gap.

Slowly, she outstretched her wings for the added support of air, and set her claws loosely on the grass, soft beneath her scaled paws. The earth hummed below her as a gentle presence; she calmed, relaxed, and steadied herself, focusing in on its familiarity -

And with a burst of speed she leaped through the brush, half running, half flying, over the river, and with a snarl smashed into two of the raptors, her tail kicking up water as it smacked against the bank.

The raptors wailed. They bit, shrieking and snarling, and Samia pushed them back after landing and swat her claw against one of their heads, slamming it backwards to slide against the grass.

One jumped on her back, its lengthened main talon seeking purchase in her steel-like scales, but she brushed it off with a slap of her wing.

The raptors pulled away after that. They knew to fear the dragons of the valley, and had apparently realized that she was one of them.

Samia ignored the stronger ones and focused in on those four she had her eyes locked on earlier. Strangely, they’d hardly moved, save for a couple of stumbling steps back.

She lurched forward and snatched the closest one with her maw. It flailed, but Samia quickly snapped its neck. Hot blood burst in her mouth as her teeth dug into its flesh -

A large impact smashed against Samia’s side. She shrieked in surprise - the force tore her back from the raptor, and the bleeding corpse fell from her mouth as she tumbled to her right. A heavy weight pushed down against her shoulder as she landed hard on her side against the grass.

Her wings went askew. Samia snarled; blindly, she reached out with her claws to swipe them against her assailant with the world about her blurring from the shakiness of the impact -

“Samia! Samia, it’s Ylaria!”

Samia’s claws stopped short. She took a surprised intake of breath and blinked hard.

Her wildly swaying vision stilled and cleared, though her head still rang from the impact – but instead of some mysterious attacker atop her, it was indeed Ylaria, her orange belly bright against the green of the forest and her sides heaving hard, harder than Samia had ever seen them beat. The drake’s wings shook and quivered.

“Ylaria?” Samia asked, bewildered. “What – what are you _doing_?”

Ylaria panted hard in silence. She gulped deeply for air.

Samia squinted. Ylaria had gone with Rexxar.

“What happened?” Samia demanded.

“The – the – river -” Ylaria heaved. She stumbled off of Samia and gestured with her head to the water. Her knees shook and the quivering of her wings intensified, and with a whine of breath she collapsed to her belly. Her breath did not calm. “Poi – poisoned.”

Samia lurched to her feet. “What?” She snapped her head to the water. The raptors were gone – except for the four Samia had been hunting. The one she had killed lay dead, but the others – they now twitched and convulsed. Samia watched with widened eyes as the jerking actions grew more violent. Green ooze dripped from their mouths to scorch the grass where it fell from the raptors’ teeth -

Just as the green ooze had curdled about the cut that had poisoned Neltharaku.

No wonder the raptors had looked sickly.

The dragon realized the raptor’s blood was in her mouth and spat it out wildly. For good measure she gushed forth a gout of flame to burn the rest from her tongue and teeth, and for a fearful moment she tried to recall if she had swallowed any of the blood – but there was no iron taste in her throat and no spike of discomfort in her belly, and so she relaxed.

“They poisoned the _water_?” Samia snarled, and she whirled upon Ylaria. The drake continued to lay down, but her breathing had begun to still. “What – where did you hear this? Where are Rexxar and the others?”

“We found their camp,” Ylaria said, and while her breathing was a bit more under control, her voice was still breathless, “it took hours, but the bear found them. We overheard them speaking. They’d poisoned the river with the same herb that poisoned Neltharaku.” She sucked in a deep breath and gasped hard, scrunching her eyes closed. “I attacked. I’d heard enough.” The drake bore back her maw in a snarl. “We destroyed them.”

Samia watched her. The elder dragon’s claws dug so deep into the earth that their entire tips disappeared underneath the grass. The hum of the ground intensified.

“They’re dead?”

“Nothing but meat.”

Samia exhaled hard. She looked back at the river. This was impossible – the river – it was the only source of water here. The brood would die of dehydration -

The raptors began to fall. More green ooze drooled from their maws, and with painful wails they died, one by one.

Samia breathed out hard, nostrils flaring.

This could not be happening.

“Rexxar and the others?” Samia asked, her voice tense.

“They must have come after me. I was the fastest. The half-orc sent me.”

A muffled thumping caught Samia’s attention. She looked to her left and trotted forward – only to see the the last of the raptors who had tried to escape her fall amongst their other dying brethren, who had already collapsed. That must have been the noise beforehand.

The dragon gaped. For a moment she was in too much shock to realize what she was seeing and hearing.

“When did they poison the river?” She asked quietly.

“The elf said before they attacked,” Ylaria said.

Samia pulled back. She looked around.

“Did you see the lynxes as you flew over?” Samia continued.

“No. I was not looking for them.”

Samia ignored her sister’s snootier tone of voice. She did not have time to discipline Ylaria’s straight-edged attitude.

“I didn’t either,” Samia murmured.

The river had been poisoned a day ago and was still so poignant with the poison it was still killing.

How many animals, animals full of energy that the dragons ate for life, had drank since then?

How many of the population of wildlife had been decimated?

Samia breathed out hard. She felt blessed that she had not taken any of the other brood with her to drink. If any had –

A loud rustling from above caught her attention. Samia glanced up with an instinctual snarl.

A dark but shimmering shadow burst through the foliage of the high trees and landed hard against the grass a yard in front of the two sisters, and a second, smaller form quickly alighted near the first.

“Feraku,” Samia breathed, relaxing. “Thalarian.” She tilted her head as Feraku dropped his wings, revealing Rexxar on his back.

“Ylaria warned you in time, I trust,” the half-orc said as he slipped off the back of the nether-drake with a surprising grace. Feraku sat down hard and bent his head to catch his breath, and Thalarian did the same, nearly collapsing as Ylaria had done beforehand.

“Yes,” Samia murmured. The half-orc was covered in blood, and bruises bloomed against his tanned skin, but otherwise he looked unharmed. “This is – this is unheard of. To have stooped so low as _this_ -”

“No one has drank?” Thalarian asked loudly. He looked at her with wide eyes, his maw open and gasping for air. “They said it would kill the hatchlings.”

“No. No one has drank. I only came to hunt,” Samia said. She eyed the dead raptors. “I was killing for the hatchlings,” she added with a murmur. “The raptors would have killed them with their poisoned blood.”

Rexxar shook his head and swept a heavy hand over his eyes, brushing away dried blood from his nose in the process. He murmured something under his breath before dropping his hand.

“It’s good no one has been poisoned,” the half-orc grunted lowly. He shook his head with a small glare as he looked over at the dead raptors. “Only beasts stoop so low as that, Samia,” he added, motioned his hand to the carcasses. “We’ve killed the lot.”

“Ylaria told me,” Samia murmured. She shifted into her human form, finding it easier to maneuver in, now that she had no use for her true form in this cramped forest. “The gems?”

“Destroyed. I have the one you asked for.” Rexxar slipped his hand into the small satchel at his belt and procured a small ruby hardly the size of his thumb; he held it inbetween his fingers and handed it to Samia.

Samia looked at it with a frown. She turned shook it around gently at her palm. It was dull in color and not altogether a very inspiring piece of jewelry – but she knew better than to judge it by its looks. Slowly, she wrapped her gloved hand about it and nodded. “Thank you. It may come in use at some point.”

Rexxar nodded. His eyes had not left the beasts. Samia swallowed hard and closed her eyes.

The rogues had not killed any of the brood – and that was luck.

Samia had not taken any of the brood for a water run, and none had been poisoned – and that was a miracle.

But it seemed that their luck was running out. Samia opened her eyes with a scowl. She looked at the gem for another moment before filing it in her pocket.

“The poison has been in the river for an entire day,” Samia said. Her voice was under control, betraying no emotion, but a fierce crackling of anger burned in her chest. “I cannot imagine how many animals are dead.”

Rexxar stiffened.

“They are all we have to eat,” Samia continued slowly, lowering her voice so only Rexxar could hear. The drakes were in hysteria enough from the ambush, and she did not need to scare Ylaria or Thalarian further.

“I know,” the hunter murmured. “I do not know how to cleanse the water. A shaman, perhaps -”

“There are no shamans here,” Samia interrupted with a bit more snap than she had intended, and she scrunched her eyes closed and put one of her palms flat against her forehead, stilling herself with a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I am – I am very stressed.”

“You need to rest, Samia. You have been working nonstop -”

“No. I’m fine. I _will_ be fine.” She turned to the three drakes before Rexxar could say anything else. “Fan out. Search the forest for the lynxes. They are a food source as much as the raptors and the wolves -”

“I don’t think we need to do that, Samia,” Thalarian murmured. He was looking out at Sylvanaar, his fins bent down to his neck.

“What?”

“Look,” he said, swallowing, raising a claw and pointing out to the abandoned night elf settlement.

Samia started forward, rounding about her younger brother. She squinted at where he was pointing.

“I don’t see anything.”

Ylaria stood up behind Samia and started forward cautiously, her fins raised. She tilted her head about where Thalarian was gesturing to – and froze.

“No. Here. Come here,” she said.

Samia frowned and went to where Ylaria stood – and she, like her sister had, stopped in her tracks as she saw.

There, littering across the abandoned buildings, were the lynxes.

Their tan bodies lay in mangled, contorted heaps; the green ooze that had come off of the raptors lay in dried pools amongst the big cats’ muzzles. In the stillness, only the fur ruffled from the gentle wind coming off of the hot, dry valley moved.

Samia stared. Some had been torn open from other predators – but those scavengers that had done so did not get far. Two black dead vultures lay, wings spread, amongst the careless sea of blood, and a lone red wolf, as well.

There must have been more than a dozen of the lynxes – fifteen, perhaps sixteen. An entire clan decimated.

Samia locked her jaw. She hardly took in what she was seeing.

The wind was still away from her, she realized blankly. No wonder she hadn’t smelled this death before Ylaria had tackled her into the ground.

Rexxar came up beside her and the inhaled sharply with a growl as he saw the carnage.

“We are going back to the brood,” Samia said slowly. The hum of the earth rumbled beneath her. Loose pebbles at her feet began to vibrate as she struggled to contain herself. “Feraku, please carry Rexxar.”

“And do what, exactly?” Ylaria asked snappily. Samia ground her teeth. Ylaria saw and bent her head submissively. She went silent.

Samia shifted wordlessly into dragon form. The smoke quickly dispersed about her, and she ruffled her wings. The wind shifted – and with it came the stench of death.

It hit her forcefully; Samia forced back a gag and was all too reminded of the smell of her brothers and sisters upon the rocks.

In silence Rexxar mounted Feraku again, and Thalarian stumbled to his feet. Samia lifted off, twirled around, and shot forth a burning gush of flame at the bodies.

It was quick to catch fire. The grass began to roast as the carcasses took aflame.

Samia beat her wings hard to keep aloft. She watched her flame rise as the other drakes lifted after her; dark, billowing smoke curled up from Sylvanaar, as thick as any stormcloud.

She gave one last look at the river.

 _Only beasts stoop so low_.

Samia growled. The rogues might have been dead, but they’d done their work.

The Black Prince, however, was not.

There was little else to do here. They had to act fast with this new information.

“Follow me,” she ordered, and twirled upon her wings, straightening them out as she directed herself out to where the brood waited. “Let’s speak elsewhere.”

—-

Wrathion sat and watched the small, green-tinged fire burning off of the loose pile of bark from Sik’vess as he repositioned his shoulders, more comfortably, against the trunk of the tree he leaned on behind him.

The dragon’s turban lay in his lap. Satisfied with his more comfortable position, he yawned, fangs peeking out against his lips, and went on to return to his earlier activity – running a claw over the golden embellishments that decorated the red metal band of his head-piece.

The metal was cool against his fingertip. He sighed quietly and eyed the flame, tiny but fiercely hot against his face, flicker and pop. The heat was comforting against his skin and bare hands; he outstretched his crossed legs with a content grumbling towards the fire, itching to be closer to the warmth without having to move his entire body from his lean against the red-leaved tree behind him. The remains of his meal lay plucked of meat to his side; only bones of the half of the deer the Blacktalons had killed and cooked remained.

Wrathion outright ignored the Blacktalons who flanked the area only some feet away. Their backs were to him; their hands sat tense on the hilt of the weapons at their belts. The red of the flame glowed against their black leathers.

Wrathion stared at the fire quietly for another moment before growing bored and looking around. His gaze went up, at first – there, high above, the stars had grown bright as the night had darkened into this black midnight. Thousands upon thousands blinked across the sky; he quickly picked out the constellations that were in season, those that he’d studied voraciously to learn. Some were masked by the light clouds still chugging across; others were hidden behind the paint-like strokes of faraway galaxies, cloudy in appearance by their own right and similar to the streams of moving nether the dragon had heard about in the skies of Outland.

Wrathion smiled brightly. No matter how many times he looked up, he was always taken aback by the night sky’s beauty.

Looking away, the dragon drifted his eyes lazily about the camp. The stars were beautiful, but they couldn’t entertain him tonight. He felt too antsy to sit and watch – a thing he was usually content to do as his champions or Blacktalons went to and fro on a simple whim of hi command while he simply studied and bolstered his strength at the Tavern as he waited.

His claws began to tap and drum against the metal. _Tap tap rap tap_. Too antsy. He had nothing to study or read to distract himself. No Titan runestones or ancient artifacts to dissect. He did not have an Alliance prince to bother or tease -…

Wrathion stopped his claws. For a tantalizing moment, the edges of his mind’s eye flickered and sharpened, readying to seek out Anduin’s gem – but he thought better of it. Surely Prince Anduin was still flying on his gryphon.

And what fun was that?

Wrathion loosened his vague, tiny hold on the connection and sighed loudly.

No – there was no one to talk to. Even Left – who was little one for idle talk, anyway – was distant, though for good reason.

And he didn’t want to think of that reason. Not now. He’d tried to push it in the back of his mind, but the image of Right going over the edge kept resurfacing – and he had nothing to distract him from it.

Wrathion ran a hand through his scruffy hair. He squinted beyond the fire.

Just ahead he could make out the group of four Blacktalons flanking Sabellian. His brother’s head was bent down to his chest, and his black hair was limp across his face, shielding it from view.

Wrathion slipped on his turban.

Maybe there was something he could waste his time on; he was hardly tired.

The dragon lifted to his feet and strode over without much thought to his actions, or what he was going to say or do.

The Blacktalons guarding the fire parted for him silently without looking back at him; perhaps they’d heard the crunching of the grass beneath his feet.

Wrathion paid them no heed. Unable to clasp his hands behind his back, he crossed them - careful to not jostle his cast _too_ much - as he walked up to Sabellian and the guards.

“Prince,” one of the Blacktalons murmured, the blood elf with red hair. Wrathion didn’t look at him; his eyes were for Sabellian only. The elder dragon didn’t even so much as twitch when the blood elf announced Wrathion’s arrival; Wrathion wondered if he had somehow managed to fall asleep standing up in that uncomfortable position.

“Has he spoken?” Wrathion asked. He studied Sabellian silently with squinted eyes as the blood elf shook his head.

“No – not since Anduin Wrynn left, my Prince.”

Wrathion said nothing. The fire crackling was the only sound in the lonely plains of Townlong; the leaves rustling from the gentle wind hardly made anything but a background of quiet whisperings, barely noticeable.

“Are you awake?” Wrathion prodded, leaning forward on his toes cautiously, head tilting, as he asked. Sabellian said nothing, and did not react; slowly, Wrathion’s shoulders began to tense, and his claws grew tight against his upper arm. His antsiness wasn’t helping, either.

Perhaps the elder dragon _was_ asleep. Wrathion frowned, annoyed at his own nerves, before leaning back and forcing himself to relax -

Sabellian’s chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh. Wrathion tensed up again and for a brief flickering moment the Black Prince recalled the crazed hate in Sabellian’s eyes some hours before, and the sickly feeling that had wrapped his stomach in sour bubbles from his elder brother’s broken look, a look even Anduin Wrynn had noticed, and -

Wrathion stopped. What was he _scared_ about? A _look_? The elder dragon was tied up, guarded by four other Blacktalons ready to shoot, and in great pain. There was nothing to be afraid of -… but even then, his tension did not release in his claws or shoulders as Sabellian rose his head up, his black hair moving back away from his face but some strands still sticking against cuts of blood that smeared against his cheek and forehead.

Sabellian locked his eyes on Wrathion as he lifted up from his limp position against the harpoon. The Black Prince noticed the shake in his brother’s shoulders as the dragon straightened them out squarely – but what Wrathion noticed the most, and with great relief, was that the hate in Sabellian’s eyes was gone - … or at least, the burning, insane hate was. The elder dragon looked at him plainly and with great irritation like Wrathion was some roach that had scuttled into his food. Dark circles wrapped heavily underneath Sabellian’s eyes.

Sabellian didn’t look frightening anymore. He just looked exhausted.

“What?” The dragon grumbled. “I am trying to sleep.”

Wrathion drew himself up. “I’d like to speak to you.”

“We are speaking right at this very moment. I’ll ask again. _What_?”

The Blacktalons whose guns and bows were aimed at Sabellian shifted uncomfortably as the elder dragon spoke. Wrathion waved them off with an impatient flick of his fingers; Sabellian’s rude comments hardly phased him.

“Leave us,” Wrathion ordered.

“Alone?” The boyish-faced human Blacktalon asked, confused.

“Yes. I will be dutiful and rather careful, I assure you.” He gave the Blacktalons a look as they continued to linger. He sighed heavily and with irritation. “Do not treat me like a child. I can handle this myself. _Go_.”

They understood the message, that time. Slowly, their weapons fell with a gentle click and clack of metal and wood sliding. Sabellian watched Wrathion as the Blacktalons moved off quietly – and as if made of wind they disappeared without a sound, no doubt to flank the fire as the others did or scout for any signs of danger like the mantid or approaching Shado-pan.

Wrathion hardly cared where they went, as long as they continued to protect the outpost. All he cared about was staring down Sabellian, who was staring him down, in turn.

“Are you just going to stand there staring, or are you going to say something?” Sabellian snapped, though the annoyed tone was weak-willed. “I am busy.”

“I don’t recall sleeping being a busy activity,” Wrathion retorted. They were truly alone now; the Blacktalons’ scents had fully disappeared beyond Wrathion’s reach. Good.

Sabellian scoffed.

Wrathion shifted his crossed arms. They continued to glare silently at one another. Mutely, a gentle chorus of crickets began to chirp in the background, hidden among the tall blades of grass that had managed to escape Sabellian’s flames.

“You look in control of yourself,” Wrathion quipped, eager to break the worsening, tense silence. He smiled. “Perhaps being chained is a suitable condition for you. I am sure it helps stop vicious urges from your Masters, hm?”

Sabellian squinted at him. Much to Wrathion’s disappointment, the dragon hardly reacted to the taunt otherwise. “I have always been in control of myself,” Sabellian grumbled. “Though I hardly expect you to agree with such an obvious… ‘predicament,’ you moronic hatchling.”

“Hardly,” the Black Prince said. He looked the elder dragon up and down; the harpoon wounds had bled through the entire side of Sabellian’s brilliant cloak, staining the entire left side of the cloth in a heavy, darkening streak of red. Wrathion was honestly surprised Sabellian wasn’t completely _limp_ against the harpoon – the alchemist’s feet were planted sure against the ground and by some miracle he was standing upright with his shoulders straight. “I was curious about your previous outburst, however.” Wrathion tilted his head at Sabellian. “You seemed _very_ angry.”

The elder dragon scowled. “Must I _apologize_ for my anger at being tied up like some rabid dog?”

“No. I was justhonestlysurprised you didn’t start foaming at the mouth like one.”

Sabellian’s scowl deepened. Wrathion studied him quickly.

_I don’t know. I spoke to him – just for a moment - and he seemed… off._

Wrathion saw nothing in Sabellian’s eyes – no broken look, no shimmer of insanity – and nothing that looked “off,” in Anduin’s words.

Where had it gone? Had Sabellian wrapped it under control? Wrathion frowned in confusion. He had been sure he’d seen a rabidness in his brother before, there in his anger – but it was here no longer.

“Will you stop _staring_ at me?” Sabellian snapped, startling Wrathion from his concentration. “If you are just going to stand there and taunt me like some animal in a cage you would do well to spin around and walk back to your lonesomeness.” The elder dragon huffed. “I am trying to focus.”

Focus. There it was again. Wrathion raised a brow. “What exactly are you focusing on?”

Sabellian said nothing. The dragon only looked at Wrathion irritatedly and leaned his head back against the harpoon.

“If you are planning to _escape_ , I can assure you -”

“I have no means of escape,” Sabellian interrupted. “But if you continue to annoy me I will lose all concentration and rip your throat out with my hands.”

“I believe your hands are tied.”

Sabellian smiled at him grimly, and without humor.

When he didn’t say anything, Wrathion frowned and leaned, tilting his head to check that yes, indeed, Sabellian’s hands were tied – and they were, knotted back to the harpoon. Wrathion squinted at them, looking for some weakness, and finding none, straightened back out.

“If I hadn’t known you had a lost mind already, I would say you are _losing_ it now,” Wrathion said.

Sabellian studied him. His false smile fell from his face.

“I will ask you once. It would be a very smart idea to heal me.”

Wrathion stared.

“Do you really think that’s an option?” Wrathion asked, surprised that Sabellian would even… _request_ such a thing.

Sabellian breathed out hard. His breath shook. Slowly, he leaned forward, and Wrathion forced himself to stand still as the fleeting urge to back up crossed his mind.

“Healing me will be the best idea you’ve had in a very long time, Black Prince,” Sabellian said, his voice a growl. “Or else you will truly regret it.”

Wrathion looked at the harpoon wounds. “You enjoyed seeing me in pain, my dear brother,” the dragon said smoothly. He looked back up to Sabellian. “I think I enjoy seeing you in it, too.”

“You think this is just about _pain_?” Sabellian snapped. He breathed out hard for the second time and leaned back hard against the pole again, shaking his head.

“Very well.” The elder dragon calmed considerably after he ground his teeth. “You’ve made your choice. I will not ask again.”

Wrathion watched him with a masked look. He was smiling with his usual small smile, but he just felt… _confused_. If this wasn’t about pain, what was it about? To be stronger to possibly escape without the wounds? Why would that _ever_ be something that would be a good idea?

“Anduin Wrynn has left,” Wrathion said after a moment of confused silence on his part. He chose his words carefully. There was something he was missing here. “I do not have a healer to give you, I’m afraid.”

Sabellian looked over to where the Alliance camp had been – now again a quiet plain near the crumbling Sik’vess – and raised a brow. “Oh? I hadn’t realized.” His words oozed a mocking sarcasm that made Wrathion’s claws tighten against his upper arm. “No wonder you look so sullen, whelp.”

“I -” Wrathion drew himself up with an annoyed puff of breath. “I am not ‘sullen’ because of Anduin Wrynn.”

Sabellian looked at him.

“You are a terrible liar. How you ever wrapped the mortals about your finger is a secret even I still wonder about.”

Wrathion scowled. “You are confusing me with yourself. I have little reason to be ‘sullen.”

“Sullen,” Sabellian repeated with a drawl. The elder dragon looked up at the sky. “I do not look sullen. You, on the other hand, look like a moping child. I know the look well from my hatchlings.”

“Yes, well. Let’s hope those hatchlings can stay safe while they can.”

Sabellian locked his jaw, but did not rise to the bait as he did before when he’d first heard about the Agents sent to Blade’s Edge.

“Surely your mate might be able to protect them,” Wrathion goaded further. “Or perhaps not. My champions have killed older dragons before. Do you know Nalice?”

“Nalice?” Sabellian snorted. “Yes. I abhorred her.” His eyes flicked back from the sky to level on Wrathion. “And I’m afraid your ‘champions’ won’t have the… _joy_ of dragon-killing my mate. Gruul has already managed to do that.”

Wrathion blinked.

“Oh?” The Black Prince murmured.

Sabellian stared at him with a strange, vacant look. “ _Oh_ ,” he repeated, mockingly.

Wrathion wrinkled his nose. He’d assumed the dragon who had apparently had the strength over the earth in Left’s report had been Sabellian’s mate.

Apparently not.

“Unfortunate,” Wrathion said, unsure of what else to say, at that. Sabellian only stared at him as if he hadn’t spoken.

The younger dragon frowned. “Might I ask something?”

“No.”

Wrathion huffed. “I am going to ask anyway.” He tilted his head at Sabellian. “Why do you care so much for your family? I’m rather aware of the…” The dragon rolled his wrist around, fingers splayed, hesitating in finding a good way to explain, “Inner… workings… of one, but you seem very much invested in yours for a corrupt monstrosity.”

Sabellian stared at him as if he’d just said the stupidest thing the elder dragon had ever heard.

Wrathion frowned. Wasn’t that a good question? “Oh, _what_?”

“You are asking me why I am protecting my family?” Sabellian repeated with a narrowing of his eyes and the look of outright judgment on Wrathion’s level of intelligence still on his face. The elder dragon stared for a moment longer before blinking hard, shaking his head and leaning back against the harpoon. “Nevermind. I have answered my own question.”

Sabellian looked Wrathion up and down. “Perhaps I’ll put it into perspective for you with a story. Children like stories, don’t they? Mine enjoy them.”

“I am _not_ a _chi_ -”

“Yes, you are. No matter. I’ll tell it anyway. Surely you enjoy it, as it has many spinnings of blood and death of black dragons, and you might even get an answer to your question at the end.”

Something about Sabellian’s tone of voice made Wrathion grow uncomfortable and quiet. The claws of his good arm tightened and unfurled like a cat’s kneading paw against his other arm. He said nothing, but locked his jaw hard and stared with a vaguely inquisitive but wary look - if his enemy was about to spin a story? Good. The more information Wrathion knew about Sabellian, the better -

Though Wrathion was honestly curious about it, too, despite the look on Sabellian’s face and the sudden, strange discomfort Wrathion felt.

The elder dragon scoffed at his look. “I am feeling talkative, and I cannot sleep otherwise.” Sabellian tilted his head back to stair at the dark sky stretched above them with its coils of milky stars and faint streams of purple spiraling eternally against the darkness, just as Wrathion has done before.

Sabellian said nothing for a moment. His dulled orange eyes trailed over the stars, as if searching for something.

“I’ve been told I tell good stories,” Sabellian said. “Listen well because I will not tell it again.”

Wrathion continued his silence. Sabellian looked down and studied him before his eyes once again went back to the sky.

“Unless you were being deaf – which I’m sure you were – I have just told you Gruul killed my mate,” Sabellian started with a grumble. “But she was not the only dragon he killed.” He paused before continuing. “Gruul was a terrible creature - I would like you to imagine a creature twice, perhaps three times, the size of my true form, little prince, with a strength of three, four, dragons combined.” The elder dragon sighed with aggravation. His eyes didn’t leave the stars. Wrathion was glad for that; he wasn’t sure if he could have been able to stare at Sabellian in the face otherwise.

“When we arrived at Blade’s Edge, the gronn did not show themselves at first,” Sabellian continued. He rolled his shoulders back, wincing slightly at the harpoon wound in his left shoulder in particular. “But Gruul thought we were a threat. And so he emerged from his lair in the mountains like some stupid, lumbering beast – and in the next handful of days he snatched four of my oldest children -” Sabellian stopped. He stared at something up in the stars and Wrathion was almost tempted to look where he was looking, but was too transfixed on the dragon to do so. “- And impaled them with a simple flick of his wrist on the spikes. I watched them die choking on their own blood with their limbs twitching and I could do nothing about it.”

When Sabellian fell silent, Wrathion thought the short story was over – until the dragon looked at him square in the face with a lidded, faraway look. “But he was a particularly cruel being, and, dissatisfied, he sent the rest of his seven sons to find the rest of my brood. Four of my eldest children were dead and he still wanted more blood.” He studied Wrathion. “You have much in common with Gruul the Dragonkiller.”

Wrathion glared. He went to interrupt, but Sabellian was quicker.

“The gronns killed many of my children. Drakes, mature dragons – it hardly mattered to them as long as their hides were as black as yours and mine.” Sabellian squinted at Wrathion again, and the Black Prince looked away. “This continually sounds familiar to you, does it not, little prince?”

Wrathion took a breath. He forced himself to look back up at Sabellian.

“I am sure you want more of my story, now. By Gruul’s command, the gronn placed the bodies of my children amongst Blade’s Edge as trophies. They tied their corpses up upon altars, or otherwise left them to rot upon smaller spikes in the valley; they allowed ogres to repeatedly impale their carcasses even after they were dead. One son of Gruul even earned the title ‘dragoneater.’ I will allow you to wonder how he came upon the title.”

The glare was gone from Wrathion’s face.

“As you can see, simple killing was never truly enough for Gruul.”

“So I see,” Wrathion murmured.

Sabellian raised a brow at him, as if surprised he’d actually spoken. He stared at Wrathion in silence for so long Wrathion had to break his gaze and look away again; his claws were nearly puncturing through his sleeve, now.

“But I’m forgetting the story of my mate,” Sabellian said with a very false tone of enthusiasm. “Her name was Kesia – and she, like my surviving daughter Samia, managed to escape Gruul’s initial onslaught – though hardly for very long.” The dragon went quiet. From the corner of his eye, Wrathion saw Sabellian’s jaw lock and unlock before he continued. “She had been trying to tear the carcasses from the spikes, and Gruul saw her. You can imagine he was very angry about his trophies being disturbed.” Sabellian paused again. Wrathion slowly looked back at him, but with his head slightly bent – he hardly realized it was – so he was still looking down. “And so he killed her. Easily. She hardly had a chance. And when he realized _who_ he had managed to kill, knowing well she was my mate, he decapitated her with a mighty twist of his wrist, took her head, and hung it in chains from the bottom of the great bridge so that I and all the world could see it.”

Sabellian wasn’t looking at Wrathion anymore. He was looking at nothing in particular, his eyes trained hazily ahead into the void. “Once his trophy was mounted he gave the rest of her body to his sons to feast upon – and for years I watched her face wear away and rot up there in those chains, as I watched my impaled sons’ and daughters’. I believe one of the best days in my memory is when I realized I had become so accustomed to the scent of their rotting that I could no longer smell it.”

Wrathion shifted his weight. He studied the grass as if it were the most interesting thing in the whole of existence.

Oh.

Wrathion cleared his throat awkwardly. He shifted again.

“And you seemed to do nothing about that dear gronn,” the dragon murmured. He did not raise his eyes.

“Must you really make such an idiotic comment?” Sabellian snapped. “My four eldest children, Kesia, and myself could not fight off Gruul and his sons. What makes you believe I could fight them off by myself?”

Wrathion bit the inside of his cheek.

“I hope you enjoyed my tale,” Sabellian grumbled, and Wrathion forced himself to look up at him for the second time, his eyes dark and lidded. “I am sure you connected well to it. Perhaps you’d like to ask your question of my care for the remainder of my brood again?”

Wrathion stared. If there was a point where he truly knew nothing to say, this was the pinnacle of it.

“ _Ask_ ,” Sabellian snapped suddenly, and Wrathion jumped, startled.

Wrathion glared, but said nothing. Sabellian scowled.

“Because my _family_ , little prince, is the only thing I care about. The day the whispers died I had nothing but them. They are everything to me.” The elder dragon leaned forward, and the chains rattled; the Titan ones at his neck buzzed idly at the more violent jerking motion. “And what do you have, whelp? A following of champions who only care for the baubles you give them and a league of ants who only care for your gold.”

Wrathion looked at Sabellian wildly.

“I have more than that,” Wrathion snapped, his throat tightening suddenly. Chi-ji and Niuzao – _they_ had said he had… _friends_. He wouldn’t allow Sabellian to take that away from him. “I care for Azeroth ten-fold than -”

“But does Azeroth care about you?” Sabellian interrupted with a growl. “Doubtful. How… _endearing_ to love a world that does not even want you _on it,_ just as little as it wants _me_ on it.” The elder dragon huffed and drew himself up from his harsh lean, bending his head back to rest on the harpoon behind him. “If there ever came a time when you heard _'my'_ masters, I can assure you that only a handful of mortals would be surprised – I am sure the rest readily expect it.”

Wrathion scowled. It felt like his heart was about to burst – he wasn’t sure if it was with hate or fear. “You are pulling this from vague notions to annoy me,” Wrathion snapped, hardly realizing his voice was somewhat breathless. “I hardly care for the mortals’ love as long as Azeroth is safe.”

Sabellian studied him. He scoffed quietly. “I told you previously you are a terrible liar. You care very much about being loved, don’t you, little whelp? Because you have never had anything to love you.” The dragon studied him. “And even as we speak your beloved champions abandon you for the lies you readily told, and your Blacktalons glance at your back as your composure slips and they see how much of a child you are who has no idea what to do with me.”

Sabellian huffed without amusement. “And you have no idea how I can care my family because you have never had one, and yet you are so intent to kill the rest of your race, your kin, your brothers and sisters, because of some blind, childish fears rather than looking at facts.” The dragon shook his head. “You call yourself a Prince but you are nothing but a cowardly, scared, lonely little boy.”

Wrathion gawked.

He snapped his mouth closed – then opened it again to say something – then closed it again when no words came.

“Go away. Our conversation is over,” Sabellian grumbled.

“You should hardly be calling me a coward when you hid from Gruul,” Wrathion snapped, the breath coming back to his words and mind as it broke out from the shock of Sabellian’s words. He breathed out hard; his claws dug so deep into his upper arm the cloth was near to puncturing through.

“I pick my fights wisely,” Sabellian growled. “That does not make me a coward.”

“Well! You certainly made a very poor choice fighting me,” Wrathion retorted. He drew himself up. The two dragons stared at one another with such hate it was almost palpable between them.

“And do not assume I enjoy doing what I do,” the Black Prince added with a mumble. He swallowed hard, but his glare remained. “I understand my family are monsters, so I do what I have to do for the good of Azeroth. I -” He stopped himself and ground his teeth. Slowly, he forced his claws to loosen against his upper arms.

“Ah, yes. For the ‘good of Azeroth.’ For protecting the mortals. You have told me as much,” Sabellian sneered. “I am sure you have their _best_ interests at heart – and not your own.”

Wrathion scowled. Smoke drifted from the corner of his mouth.

“Believe what you will,” the Black Prince growled, though his voice was vaguely wobbly. “I am going to bed.”

“Mm. Enjoy your lonesomeness,” Sabellian added with a sarcastic tone of friendliness. “Goodnight, whelp.”

Hands curling hard into his arms again, Wrathion turned on his heel and stomped back to the fire.

“My Prince, would you like the guards to retu -”

“Yes,” Wrathion interrupted, sweeping by the Blacktalon in his way who stood near the fire. “Don’t speak to me again.”

The dragon rounded around the fire; the flames were dying. He eyed it with annoyance, flicked his finger out and a small line of fire streamed from the tip of his claw, swooshing into the burning pile of bark and ramping up the flames again in a _whoosh_ of hot air.

Talking to Sabellian had been a bad idea.

Wrathion grumbled as he looked up at the leaves of the tree he’d been leaning on before he’d taken his ill-fated stroll. What had he been _thinking_? His antsiness had been bad, but now it was _worse_.

He uncrossed his arms clumsily, wincing as he moved his cast too quickly.

Wrathion didn’t want to think about it anymore. He needed something to distract him – but _what,_ he thought? He still had nothing to read. Nothing to study. He _was_ very much alone out here -

No. He couldn’t think about what Sabellian said.

Wrathion shifted into his whelp form and flew up into the branches of the tree, carefully balancing himself on one of the higher branches and tucking in his purple-colored wings to avoid smacking them into the bright red leaves that surrounded him.

The whelp grumbled and plopped himself down. His tail was quick to curl about his form and drape its end idly over the branch.

Wrathion glanced down. His Blacktalons took no notice of him, and only stared out at the surroundings of Townlong, bleak in the darkness. He did not see Left. For a terrible moment he wondered if she had gone – but he shook his head and told himself that no, she wouldn’t do that. She was his _friend_ , no matter what Sabellian told him about being lonely.

He wasn’t lonely. That was absurd.

Wrathion shifted about, trying to make himself comfortable, though it was difficult to.

The leaves rustled as the tip of his wings brushed against them.

Maybe checking on Anduin would be best -… yes, that sounded like an excellent idea, he told himself. That would be a good distraction.

Wrathion reached out with his mind. The gem was easy to find. With a gentle shift of concentration, the whelp connected to the jewel, closed his eyes, set his head upon the branch, and sighed, watching in silence.

—-

The gryphons landed at the Shrine of Seven Stars quietly and without much announcement; the bright torches and lanterns lining along the ivory and gold platform burned brightly against the darkness of the night, illuminating the entire shrine.

Anduin was glad for them. His eyes already felt like they were numb from having to endure the cold winds coming off of Kun-lai as they’d flown from Townlong and the entirety of the Vale, and the darkness was making everything twice as blurred. He rubbed at his eyes, withholding a yawn, as he guided his white gryphon behind his father’s mount as the group shuffled to a stop, the gryphons’ talons tapping and scratching against the stone.

“Dismount. Fennie, Alatariel, take care of the gryphons. The rest of you get in the Shrine and rest,” Varian ordered. Anduin watched him. The king must have been as tired as he was, but he didn’t show it – but the soldiers relaxed as one when the orders were given. _They_ must have been exhausted, too. Sleeping must have been a nice command to follow, especially after fighting a dragon and flying gryphons back and forth across Pandaria trying to save their prince. Anduin felt a bit guilty for that – at least they could rest, now.

In silence, save for the rattling of armor and the clinking of the reins, the Alliance dismounted and handed off their mounts to the waiting Fennie and Alatariel, a night elf with dark red hair that almost looked brown, strange for his race. A handful of others who had been at the Shrine and had watched the gryphons descend came over to offer help, many of them Alliance-factioned pandaren.

Anduin was about to slip off of his own mount when a steady hand gripped onto the reins and held the white beast steady. The prince glanced over and there was Varian, standing to the side, his thick brown hair very much wind-swept.

“Do you need help?” The king asked, low enough where no one else could hear. Anduin shook his head. Every inch of him was exhausted, practically pulling towards the Shrine where a comforting bed awaited him, and his wounds had only increased in pain the longer he’d sat stiff on his mount.

But all the same he smiled tiredly at his father. “No. I’m fine,” he insisted after the shaking of his head didn’t make Varian leave. The king went to say something, but Anduin didn’t give him a chance to; the prince turned and carefully but quickly slipped from the saddle, landing on his good leg and holding back a wince as the small vibration jostled his bad one and made the burnt skin on his back grow taut.

Varian handed Anduin the makeshift cane.

“I should have gotten you your cane at Lion’s Landing,” Varian said as Anduin took the bark-made cane from his father. “We’ll find you a new one tomorrow.”

“That’s alright, Father,” Anduin said. He looked away and out at the Vale. They had flown around the great mogu statues, taking a small detour rather than bee-lining straight for the Shrine of Seven Stars – and Anduin could only guess as to _why_. The digging of the Vale _had_ to be where they’d avoided.

But he couldn’t see anything from the distance or the darkness. Anduin craned his head up, standing on the tip of his toes on his good leg, and sighed when still nothing appeared on the dark horizon. He could just make out the glow of the lake in the middle of the Vale near the largest golden palace in the vicinity – but no destroyed parts of the sacred landscape.

“Anduin,” Varian said, and the king placed a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. Anduin frowned and looked back up at his father. “You should get some sleep.” He hesitated. “You can see the Vale in the morning. We’ll be here for the week, or until we get this… situation under control.”

Anduin nodded. His body was urging him to find the nearest bed, but at the same time, he wanted to see what the Horde had accomplished already -

He sighed. “Of course,” Anduin murmured. Varian took his hand off of his shoulder and beckoned with a nod of his head to two soldiers standing guard near the Shrine’s entrance; they had been murmuring to the Golden Lotus who watched the Alliance party curiously, but quickly trotted over as their king called with the gesture.

“Take my son to his room, and make sure he stays there safely,” Varian said. Anduin tensed, but swallowed an argument. He could get to his room just fine – but of course the king wanted him under wraps and under eye.

The guards nodded. Anduin blinked hard, glanced out at the Vale again, then pat the side of his gryphon’s neck with resignation. The mount gave a pleased but tired chortling and nudged the prince’s hand until she was led off by the mount handlers to rejoin the other gryphons.

Anduin watched her before glancing back at the waiting king and the guards. For the second time he gave his father a tired smile. “I forgot to thank you.”

The king raised a brow. “You don’t have to thank me, Anduin,” Varian responded gruffly, but with a small smile of his own. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“So am I,” Anduin yawned. “Goodnight, Father.”

“Goodnight, Anduin.”

Anduin nodded, and Varian moved out of the way. Gripping his makeshift cane hard, Anduin was quick to sweep into the Shrine, smiling graciously at the Golden Lotus, who stood near the entrance, bow their heads to him in passing.

Anduin hardly ever recalled when the lobby had ever been this still. Like the platform outside, lanterns lit up the Shrine; they lined the twin staircases leading up and around the great mogu statue, its arms outstretched with lofted golden polearms. A warm light lit up from underneath the sculpture, illuminating the darkened half of the interior; the muted colors of red, blue, and purple shone eerily in the quiet. The Tushui banners of the Alliance sat still amongst the thick-bodied pillars they hung across.

It was very silent. Usually adventurers, locals, and other factions alike were bustling to and fro, but – Anduin sighed. He’d forgotten how late it was; everyone must have been asleep. He glanced up at a quiet murmuring coming from one of the balconies and spotted the armor merchant there speaking quietly to a dwarf. They took no notice of the prince and his unwanted entourage.

 _Sleep_ , his body begged. His room was just a flight of stairs up.

Anduin obliged. He was just wasting time, lingering here like he was. He went off to the left, going through the archway and making his way into the separate chamber of the Shrine. Like the lobby, many of the merchants had turned in for the night; the cooks were gone, as well as the blacksmiths and alchemist who usually stationed themselves here.

Another double-bodied set of stairs snaked upwards at the side of the wall. Anduin stared at them without friendliness. A muscle in his bad leg began to twitch.

All he had to do was get up the stairs. Easy. He’d climbed down a cave entrance in the snow and freezing cold to get to Wrathion – he could manage a flight of stairs.

With a small sigh, Anduin started up them. It took less time than he thought, and he was glad for it – and glad that his guards had been as silent as the rest of the Shrine was. It was mortifying to do this on his own in the quiet, but worse when someone tried to take pity and ask if he needed help – not that he didn’t _appreciate_ the gesture or their kindness, but doing things on his own was something he would have rather done.

Anduin took a deep breath when he made it to the second floor. There was just one last flight of steps. Ahead was the room that led into the portals to each of the Alliance capitols, and even to the cities in Northrend and Outland; the prince squinted, tilting his head so he could see one of the portals halfway hidden behind a serpent statue, as he rested his leg. He could just make out the portal to Shattrath.

He’d always been interested in Outland before, but now -

“Oh, dear. Anduin Wrynn. I’m surprised to see you.”

Anduin frowned. That was a familiar voice.

He turned. To his right, outside a small golden archway, was the balcony that overlooked the main lobby of the Shrine of Seven Stars; usually Pandaren were there playing music, but today it was vacant – save for one elder pandaren woman clad in a black, purple embroidered dress who sat with her hands encircling a ceramic tea cup. The streaks of black against her eyes and tips of her ears were dotted with an aging white. Behind her stood an abnormally tall, foreboding pandaren, his face half-hidden by a tweed hat.

Anduin recognized her immediately.

“Madam Goya?” Anduin called out in confusion.

“Hello, dear,” the Black Market caretaker said with a small, shielded smile. She raised her cup to drink, and her eyes slid from Anduin to focus on her paws as she slowly lowered her cup again.

Anduin stared, his mouth slightly agape.

“You’re alive,” he blurted, eyes only widening with astonishment.

Madam Goya smiled but did not look at him.

The prince stared for another moment before realizing the obviousness of his statement. He cleared his throat, feeling somewhat foolish – but still overwhelmingly surprised. Left and he had looked _everywhere_ for Right and any other survivors. He’d assumed Madam Goya had been one of the causalities, but -

He shook his head and, ignoring the grumbling protest from his guards, made his way over to the pandaren; his cane tapped clear against the golden polished stone.

 _This_ was a surprise.

“We looked everywhere for you,” Anduin said as he neared the table. The large male pandaren squinted down at him. By the _Light_ , he was tall – as tall as Baine Bloodhoof. Anduin was mindful not to stand in the bodyguard’s shadow, and was quick to note the dagger at the hilt of the pandaren’s belt.

“Oh?” Madam Goya asked. Her eyes went back to Anduin, and she tilted her head just so. Anduin hardly knew the pandaren – he’d only said hello once or twice – but judging by how calculated each move of hers was, how slow and precise, she was not one to be trifled with.

Anduin nodded. “What happened? How did you get away?”

Madam Goya smiled again. Without looking away from Anduin, she beckoned with a curling of one of her claws to her bodyguard and the enormous pandaren handed her a white teapot decorated with cherry blossoms and a crane with outstretched wings; the Black Market caretaker turned away and poured herself another cup.

“Your concern is touching,” the pandaren said, swirling a spoonful of sugar into her caramel-colored tea. “But you see, the Black Prince may have many spies – but so do I.” She set down her spoon. “Mine saw the dragons coming and smashing the rogues into the rock even before the other Blacktalons - and I was warned accordingly.” Madam Goya gestured to her bodyguard. “We whisked away as they approached. A good thing, I suppose. The fighting broke out soon after.”

“You didn’t help,” Anduin said. He looked at the large pandaren, then back to Madam Goya. “You could have -”

“I’m afraid, dear, that dragon fights are not a business of the Black Market,” Madam Goya interrupted smoothly, taking a sip of her tea soon after. “The _selling_ of dragons, of course,” she added with a widening smile, as if it were some sort of joke, “but we do not help in dogfights.”

Anduin, annoyed, bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying anything else that threatened to tumble from his lips – like something that would further anger them, even though Anduin’s guards were right behind him. Even with the Black Market’s guards, he tried to tell himself, Wrathion would have been beaten – but the thought didn’t help remove the irritation Anduin had.

“Oh,” was all he said. He frowned thoughtfully. “I – well, we went back to the Tavern,” he began, carefully keeping _why_ they had gone back out of the conversation, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but most of the Black Market’s stores were looted.”

Madam Goya didn’t even flinch. She only looked at him as if he’d just told her the weather. “I know, dear. It is being rectified as we speak.”

Anduin tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“No one steals from me, Prince Anduin,” Madam Goya said with a sweet smile – but her eyes were sharp and Anduin knew danger when he saw it. “But I do thank you for letting me know.”

Anduin shifted his weight and nodded mutely. “I see. Well – good luck. I’m sure you’ll get everything,” he said, smiling, trying to lighten the mood. Madam Goya studied him quietly. Anduin decided it was best to change the subject. “How did you end up here?”

“Ah,” Madam Goya murmured, stroking back her bangs from her forehead. “It is here we first went. The Golden Lotus is always very welcoming, even to those like us, Crane bless them.” She sighed. “I suppose Tong’s familiarity with the innkeeper here might have helped -”

“Tong’s alive too?” Anduin interrupted. A wide smile swept up his face.

Madam Goya sideglanced him. “Yes. A lucky old bear, that one. Trading precious tea from me at the time.” The pandaren set down her cup and gave a gentle nod of her head. “He left for the Tavern just yesterday. I cannot imagine his aggravation. That Tavern was his livelihood.”

Anduin’s smile slowly dropped him from his face. “I’m sure Wrathion will help rebuild it,” the prince insisted. Madam Goya raised a brow at him. “Hopefully.”

“Yes. Well. I will be asking for the Black Prince to pay for the Black Market’s own damages regardless if he helps the Tavern in the Mists or not,” Madam Goya quipped. “Blood stains are truly terrible décor… but he has time, of course. We will be staying until my goods are returned to ensure the Black Market’s excellent return.”

Madam Goya squinted at him. “But enough about me. Tell me, my dear. Where have you been? Rumors travel fast in Pandaria. I have heard many things, but it is good to always listen from the source.”

Any evidence of the remainder of Anduin’s smile evaporated. The prince tensed. “What kind of things have you heard?”

“Many a thing of our dear Black Prince, of course,” Madam Goya said. “I had thought the poor child dead when that brute came up the Stairs.” Her smile vanished from her face to be replaced by open inquisition.

“I have heard things I’ve thought to always be true, you see. Too many times during these passed days I’ve heard disgruntled strangers from the Mists muttering about the lies of the Black Prince.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head, almost motherly in her admonishment. “That foolish child. To have seen both the ‘Horde’ and the ‘Alliance’ walk into dear old Tong’s inn and come out looking satisfied with the dragon’s words? I knew something was amiss. Yet to have lied to both the faces of your strange factions? Outrageous. Even I, my dear, know how tensions grow between your sides, as silly at it is to us pandaren. The Black Prince is as proud as an eagle but is as stupid as its chick.”

Anduin sighed. He reshifted his grip on his cane; he’d been leaning on it so hard that his palm was starting to bleep with little numb pins and needles. “Well – that’s true, yes,” Anduin said, begrudgingly. “He kept swearing to both that he was on their side.” It was then that Anduin recalled the gem, and his chest went hot – but no, Wrathion couldn’t be looking through it _constantly_ , could he? Anduin tried to… _feel_ the dragon in his head, but nothing seemed amiss, so he relaxed. The gem was in only in his pocket, anyway.

“Trifling news,” Madam Goya sighed. “But I’ve heard other things besides the Black Prince’s foolishness. I have heard the whole of Lion’s Landing succumbing to a terrible potion, a dragon from another planet, two great lizards battling near the Wall and setting near-half of the Valley on fire. And,” she raised a brow, “trails of Sha corruption near the Tavern – amongst other things. This seems to be _quite_ the ordeal for the poor child.”

Anduin swallowed. How had she _heard_ of all that -?

… But of course, this was the same purveyor of the largest underground market in Pandaria. She was untouchable. If _she_ knew where to find all of those rare goods, hidden from sight and law, she would know these open rumors.

Now Anduin just wondered what _else_ the general population had heard. They’d heard about Wrathion’s deceit with the factions – if they heard about the Sha corruption…

That made him nervous. “I don’t know everything,” he lied. “I’m sure most of it are rumors.”

Madam Goya studied him quietly. She smiled – but this time it was not even falsely sweet. It was shrewd. “Yes. Of course, Prince.” She clasped her paws in front of her and placed them idly on the table. A gong began to ring through the Shrine, signaling the passing hour, deep and heavy and reverberating through the golden walls. “Please, go rest. I am sorry to have kept you. But how interesting you had to return to the Tavern, dear – I do wonder. Was it not you who cleansed the Red Crane?” She smiled. “I will keep that in mind.”

Anduin stared.

Had she just -

“And perhaps I will pay you a visit when you are good and ready to speak.”

Anduin squinted. Madam Goya’s bodyguard shifted then tensed, and Anduin’s did, in turn. It was time to leave.

The prince smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. He bent his head to the pandaren in a goodbye. “Of course, Madam Goya,” he said, choosing his words carefully and keeping his voice even.

The pandaren said nothing. Anduin turned and, bodyguards trailing behind him, made his way to the stairs with a small glare in the creases of his eyes.

“Prince, do you need help?” One of the guards asked as Anduin began walking up the stairs, his bad leg cringing with every step.

Anduin’s glare deepened. So much for not being asked for help.

He shook his head, too angry at himself for letting that little piece of information about returning to the Tavern slipping, to respond.

The second climb was hard, but it was quick.

Anduin hardly registered it. The prince was too aggravated. He’d just nearly confirmed Madam Goya’s rumors about the Sha, he thought, as he made his way down the small hallway to his quarters here in the Shrine. A great red cloud serpent, etched with crackling thunder about its lithe form, stretched out across the length of the hallway.

The prince shook his head. He would have to deal with Madam Goya later – if there came a time when she did come asking for him. Anduin knew about careful speech and politics and rumors from his time at court enough to know when to control his words. He would be more careful next time.

His door was just ahead. He reached out with his bandaged arm – suddenly realizing that now _both_ of his arms had their hands full, so to speak, one with a cast and the other with the cane – and now further annoyed at _that_ predicament, swung open the door awkwardly and shuffled inside.

“Thank you,” Anduin called out to the guards. They quickly took their positions next to the door. The woman guard nodded at him, and the prince forced a tired smile and closed the door.

The moment the door closed, his shoulders slouched and his head drooped and a wave of exhaustion crashed into him so hard he almost fell over. He gripped his cane hard and took a deep breath, scrunching his eyes closed, focusing hard on keeping upright.

His balance came back, but the overwhelming exhaustion didn’t. Anduin sighed and reopened his eyes. The large pandaren bed, thick with fluffed red sheets with golden tassels hanging idly at the bottom, nearly _beckoned_ him. Anduin couldn’t remember when he’d slept last – and a good long sleep, too.

Anduin rubbed at his eyes and limped over; he set his cane down against the side of the bed and ,leaning hard against his good leg, slipped the various items from his pockets out and placed them on the counter – leftover reagents from trying to cure Wrathion’s sickness, a folded piece of parchment with various blessings, a feather from the Red Crane (he was told it was blessed, and decided it would be nice to carry it), and then Wrathion’s gem. Anduin hesitated in putting that down – it was warm between his fingers, and flickered with an inward glow that he wasn’t sure if he recalled being there before. The prince tilted his head.

“Wrathion?” He said aloud, wondering if it would work. Anduin frowned when he received no response. How did this thing function, anyway? The prince sighed with a small grumble and put it on the counter as he recalled Wrathion’s insistence that it be a _game_. Of course.

Anduin tried to forget about it – just like he tried to forget about the conversation with Madam Goya. Obviously, the news would have gotten out – but the news about the Sha corrupting Wrathion wasn’t something Anduin wanted to be spread. He shook his head and sat down on the side of the bed, slipping off his sash and his blue poncho and brushing them off to the side.

Taking off his tabard was a bit harder. He bit back a wince as he was forced to twist his injured arm at an awkward angle to slip the blue piece off – and if that wasn’t difficult enough, the white tunic was worse. Now alone, his usually guarded face when dealing with pain contorted expressively – one of his lips curled and his eyes squinted hard as he pulled the tunic off and tried to ignore the sharp prickling in his arm.

Anduin stared at his pants once his chest-pieces were off.

His stare became a small glare the longer he looked at them. Taking _them_ off would be a lot harder than his shirts had been, considering his leg – so he ignored them, deciding to just sleep in these than change into others, and swallowed his growing frustration at all of his injured body parts.

And so the prince sighed, arched his back like a cat’s, and yawned as he grabbed a handful of the covers and sheared them back. He sank back into the bed slowly, shifting about and rearranging himself until he was fully comfortable, and pulled the plush blankets back over himself; a content smile spread across his lips.

It felt like he’d never been this tired in his entire life, and the bed’s comfort wasn’t making sleep hard to come; all of his worries about Wrathion, about Sabellian, about his own injuries – they quickly fell away into a wordless murmur at the back of his mind to be remembered in the morning.

Anduin shifted again, burying the side of his head into the golden pillow behind him, and sighed slowly. His eyes drooped. They slid over to the counter where in the darkness the gem gleamed.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, not knowing if Wrathion could even hear, and closed his eyes to quickly fall asleep for a very well-earned rest.

—-

Samia watched Neltharaku struggle to a sitting position as the rest of the elder drakes gathered about her, forming a loose circle.

The group was composed of the nether-dragons who had come from Shadowmoon and the older black dragons of Sabellian’s brood; the younger drakes and whelps were inside the cave, guarded by Thalarian, who, Samia hoped, was not too bumbling to slip up on such an easy job.

Night neared. The red of the nether-streams high above curled out amongst the bladed mountains like a sheen of inescapable blood. Samia’s black scales grew dark crimson in the light’s wake.

“Poisoning the river was a bold move,” Neltharaku sighed, grunting heavily as he managed to sit upright. His right forearm was limp; a thick white bandage curled about his blue, speckled skin, covering the oozing cut that had poisoned him.

“Very,” Samia agreed. Her fins were low across her neck. With a quick, cursory glance, she spied the Netherwing leader over. “There’s no need for you to sit up. If you’re feeling -”

“I am fine,” the nether-dragon said. He nodded once and shifted clumsily. The nether-drakes watched their broodfather warily. “The poison has nearly left me.”

“Spirit Bane is a vicious thing,” Rexxar murmured. He stood off to the side. Sitting beside him was Misha; she had been at the black dragons’ cave when Samia and the others had arrived back with the grim news of the water supply and had gathered the eldest to speak to. “You should thank the spirits for your life.”

“Or perhaps my mutated form,” Neltharaku said. His tone held a vague sense of bitterness. “No matter. Please, Samia. Enough about my condition. Continue, if you would.”

Samia bowed her head in a gentle nod. “The river is no doubt poisoned. I, and Ylaria, watched an entire raptor pack die after drinking – and nearly fifteen lynxes, among other animals,” the elder dragon added grimly. “You are not as accustomed to our way of life as we are, Neltharaku. The predators here are our main food source. If they have died in these numbers -” She paused and shook her head. “There is little else for us to eat unless we were to travel elsewhere.”

Neltharaku nodded. The elder black dragons shifted; some mumbled to each other quietly, nervously. They hadn’t heard the news about the food dying. Samia kept her eyes straight and hard. She had to look strong for them.

“You only witnessed two packs of animals die?” Neltharaku asked. “No others?”

“We came straight here,” Samia replied. She folded her wings closer to her body. “I have no doubt there is other carnage elsewhere. That river is the only source of water in Blade’s Edge. All of the animals flock to it.”

Neltharaku hummed thoughtfully.

“The blood elf said the amount of poison was enough to kill the hatchlings,” Rexxar said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “It may be safe for the elder dragons to feast, but your children will starve.”

“I had grown curious about that,” Feraku spoke. He sat to the right of his broodfather, a special position of honor, for having gone on the hunt for the Blacktalons. “How did the animals die? They are larger than the hatchlings.”

“Dragons can resist more than the average beast, nether-drake,” Samia said. She nodded her head to Neltharaku. “Rexxar. You said the blood elf thought Neltharaku dead?”

“Yes.”

“And yet he’s still alive. Dragons are strong,” Samia said. “Stronger than others.”

The elder drakes looked at her. The comment seemed to have lessened their nervous twitching. Good.

“But even then, what Rexxar says is true. The hatchlings will starve. We will have to hunt elsewhere until the river is purified.”

“Where?” Ylaria asked. “Zangarmarsh?”

Samia frowned thoughtfully. “I hadn’t given it much thought.”

“We haven’t gone to the other places of Outland,” one drake murmured. “Father never allowed it.”

“Father would allow it if he was here and in this situation,” Samia harrumphed. “We do what we have to.”

“And the water? We will all need that,” another drake said.

“Yes. We will.” Samia frowned. This was proving difficult. Her claws sank into the ground and the earth’s hum comforted her. She relaxed, but only just. “Zangarmarsh is flooded with it, and it is just to the south.”

“But the river is running into Zangarmarsh, is it not?” Neltharaku asked. The nether buzzed around his transparent form idly. “Even that may be at risk.”

Samia tapped her claws. “The lower marshes should be fine – and if not -” She sighed. “Nagrand would be the other option.”

“That’s a very long journey for water,” Ylaria said, bluntly. “The majority would only need to return back on account of thirst after making the trip back home.”

Samia bristled, vaguely annoyed by her sister’s harsh honesty, but she _was_ right. “I realize that,” the elder dragon said. “But there’s little else we can do. If the waters of Zangarmarsh and its animals are sustainable, then the problem will be little more than a hindrance.”

“The hatchlings will be left without guards for longer, at any rate,” Ylaria said. “If the rogues return, they will die.”

“Perhaps not,” Neltharaku said. Samia looked at him oddly but the Netherwing leader offered no other comment.

“ _Yes_ , Ylaria. _Thank_ you,” Samia murmured before Ylaria could continue to be grim. he older dragon took a deep breath. Ylaria was just being her usual blunt self; she couldn’t let that get under her skin. “But you managed to kill the rogues. We have time to plan if this Black Prince sends more in the future.”

“I don’t think it’s an ‘if.’ It’s a ‘when,’” Ylaria said.

Samia sighed. “Yes.” She watched the bodies of her brothers and sisters tense up again. Sugar-coating the truth was apparently not an option with Ylaria around, and Samia wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing – on one hand, the drakes were scared enough and didn’t need a harsher reality, but on the other, they needed to know what the situation was.

The dragon sighed again. She felt like she was going to get a very bad headache soon.

“We’ll need to set up teams to find prey and return,” Samia said. The drakes nodded in agreement. “Only the strongest – and maybe the most stealthy. You know Father didn’t like us going into other places, but I don’t think he ever explained why.” She hesitated. “The locals do not like black, flying lizards as those on Azeroth don’t. If they see us encroaching on their territory, it will not be friendly.”

Just as they had encroached on Gruul’s, here, and had paid a heavy price for it.

“Only the Broken remain in Zangarmarsh,” Neltharaku said.

“Even then, caution is something we need to use,” Samia retorted. “Not outright, blind strength to crush.” She eyed Ylaria. “Something I believe most black dragons have trouble reigning in.”

Ylaria shifted on her feet.

“I just – they poisoned the _water_ ,” one of the drakes murmured in disbelief. “They really want to kill us that badly?”

“Yes,” Samia said. “Apparently.”

The group went quiet – up until Rexxar spoke.

“I don’t remember sharing what I learned about Sable– Sabellian,” Rexxar said gruffly. Samia’s head snapped to him so quickly she felt the muscles in her neck strain, but she hardly registered it. The rest of the black drakes nearly mirrored the movement, save for Ylaria.

“With how the leader spoke, it seems he’s still alive,” Rexxar continued.

Samia breathed out in relief –

But paused after realizing Rexxar had not sounded overwhelmingly happy with delivering the news. She looked at him hard, questioning. “And?”

The hunter frowned. “It seemed to me the leader spoke as if they are nearing in on him, or have already managed to capture him,” Rexxar explained. “ - As if he had little time.”

The black dragons murmured and shifted. Samia bent her fins low across her neck and studied the half-orc. She took a deep breath, then a second.

“If he’s still alive, there’s some hope left,” Samia said, interrupting the black dragons’ rising voices. She turned away from Rexxar to face them. “We all knew something was wrong. This just confirms it.”

“How can a whelp take down Father?” A drake asked, huffing.

“We don’t know anything about the Black Prince,” Samia continued, giving a sharp look to the drake as he opened his mouth to interrupt her. “Father knew as little as we did before he left to go take care of our… relative. The only thing we know is that he is young, and that he was experimented on. Nothing more.”

“He must be some sort of monster,” one of the drakes murmured. “Like Uncle Nefarian’s.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. The side of nether-dragons watched impassively.

“He’ll kill Father, then,” Ylaria said. The orange-bellied drake held herself stiffly, and no flicker or outburst of emotion crossed her narrowed eyes. “We cannot do anything but wait until more rogues come again.”

“Unless someone went after the Prince, too,” a drake quipped. “As one, we could destroy him and his mortal followers.”

“No. We can’t,” Samia said hurriedly as the fins of her siblings began to rise from their droops along their necks in anticipation at the thought of killing their enemy. Blast it, she thought, black dragons _did_ have trouble holding in their urge to crush one’s foes without little thought to consequence. “We will talk over what will happen to Father after we deal with how we will _eat_ and _survive_. If Father does return, I don’t believe he wants to come back to his brood starving or already dead from starvation. Let’s focus on the problem at hand.”

“Samia,” Neltharaku said. “May I have a word with you privately?”

The black dragon blinked. “Yes. Of course.” She turned to one of her brothers, a thick-bodied black drake near to maturity by the name of Vaxian. “Vaxian, begin splitting into teams. Assign yourselves accordingly. Stealth, hunting techniques – you know.”

Vaxian nodded. “Of course,” he said, his voice a deep grumble.

Samia looked at Neltharaku. “Lead the way.”

The Netherwing leader nodded. He, shakily, rose to his feet and lumbered passed the loose circle of dragons, heading out to the cliffs behind Samia that jut out across the valley.

Samia followed. They went out of earshot, then continued even further until the group was blurred by the distance.

Neltharaku sat down hard against the cliff. Right below, the valley of Blade’s Edge yawned. Samia sat next to him.

The Netherwing leader said nothing, at first, until he heaved a tired sigh and glittering, lightning-coursed smoke drifted about his form, shrinking and warping about him until an elf in a long blue robe stood, hands held loosely at his sides, at Samia’s side. The robe was encrusted with jewels of all colors – veridian, turquoise, yellow – like the dots of scales upon Neltharaku’s dragon form. His hair in his elven form was long, nearly reaching the middle of his back, and colored a ghostly blue – and like his dragon form’s skin, his own skin was smooth, jelly-like, and blue in color, as well as somewhat transparent. If Samia focused hard enough, she could see the other side of the valley to Neltharaku’s side through his cheeks.

In turn, Samia quickly shifted. The smoke was quick to disperse. Nonchalantly, she brushed away some dust from her black and silver-lined pauldrons as she waited for the nether-dragon to speak.

“Let us speak of your father, Samia,” Neltharaku began quietly. “You had said to speak of it later, but the drakes will take care of what needs to be done about this poison.”

Samia frowned, but she nodded slowly. “Alright.”

“This Black Prince will surely kill him,” Neltharaku continued. His eyes searched the valley idly. Little streams of white nether flickered about his robe.

“This isn’t all about my father,” Samia interrupted. She shifted her feet, crossing her arms across her chest and looking out at the valley. “I love him very much, but this isn’t just about him. This is about all of us.”

From the corner of her eyes, she saw Neltharaku look out at the dusty landscape with her, and for a moment she felt as if they had never moved from this spot, having spoken close like this before on a ravine so similar to this, when the rogues had yet to come and such danger had yet to surface, and Samia’s only worry was for her father’s later return.

“My father,” Samia continued quietly, “is the only one standing in-between this whelp and us now. Him, and my brother and sister he took along with him. And if he dies, then there is nothing stopping that Black Prince from coming after us again with more of his soldiers.” She shook her head. “We hardly managed to fight them back before. I don’t think we’ll be able to do it again if their numbers grow.”

Neltharaku said nothing; his only response was a slim frown. In silence they looked out over the darkened valley, and Samia watched the red haze of the nether-streams flicker and dance against the spiked rocks like a shimmering reflection of water against glass.

“I had said before I am willing to go if you are not,” Neltharaku murmured. There was no need for their voices to be silent, Samia realized – but something about the quietness of Blade’s Edge prompted her, and apparently the Netherwing leader, to be. “You have your family to protect here.”

“As you have yours,” Samia said. She looked over at the dragon; in his elven form, his long blue-white hair wisped against his face as the wind swept gently passed them. “What happened to staying out of it?” The black dragon asked with a raised brow. Again she recalled their earlier conversations, days prior, alone upon the cliff. He had been so… _gentile_ , so calm -

“Two of my children were sacrificed on your father’s behalf,” Neltharaku said. He clasped his hands behind his back and Samia caught the hastily-hidden wince at the nether-dragon’s eyes as moved his injured wrist. “It was a bold and… unkindly move of Sabellian, as I have said beforehand. But I do not control my childrens’ lives. If they went on their own accord, their sacrifice was then their own.” Neltharaku paused. He tilted his chin up slightly in a quiet position of pride. “Perhaps your father thinks us cowardly, Samia. My brother and I do not see… eye to eye. But this Black Prince has killed two more of my children on my homeworld and nearly succeeded in killing me to get to you. That was no choice of my drakes’.” The dragon looked at her. His skin shimmered with fading sparks that popped and crackled against his eyes, his cheeks, his nose. “It has become very personal. You do not come after the Netherwing and expect us to be compliant. The fel orcs surely realized it when we broke from their bonds, and this Black Prince will, as well, when we descend on him like a storm.”

Samia smiled, slow and vicious.

“Good,” she said. “I’m glad you finally think so.”

“I had just wished it did not cost two more of my peoples’ lives,” Neltharaku said as he looked away, sighing. “But I am true to my word, Samia. I will go if you do not.” He opened his mouth to continue, but stopped short.

“What?”

“I am sorry for my bluntness – but I have more to sacrifice in numbers than your family does,” Neltharaku murmured, bowing his head submissively as if asking for forgiveness from the comment.

“I’m aware,” Samia said tersely. She flexed her claws near her side.

No. She was not just _aware._ She was _acutely_ aware. It was why she was so… _hesitant_ to go. Surely there was enough to guard the brood if she left – but if she did not come back, no one would be strong enough to fend off a threat like the Black Prince’s rogues, and the last remaining brood of black dragons would die.

“This is my family,” Samia said slowly. She did not look at the Netherwing leader. “I know you’re protecting yours, too, but this is _our_ fight first. If I went -” The dragon paused and frowned thoughtfully. “If I went,” she began again, even slower, thinking through the thought as she spoke it aloud, “I would ask you to stay. I can’t just _leave_ my brothers and sisters. My father counted on me to protect them in his absence.”

“And you have done an excellent job, my niece.”

“Hardly,” Samia murmured.

“No one has died.”

“Because of sheer dumb luck,” Samia said, voice rising, her tone a bit more bitter.

Neltharaku frowned.

“If you would go, Samia, I would stay. The truce I made with your father, my brother, was for our mutual protection. I would guard your siblings with my life.”

Samia turned to him.

“We would need more nether-drakes.” Two to guard had apparently not worked out.

“I have already summoned more,” Neltharaku said with a small smile. “Nearly a quarter of my brood nears.”

“How many?”

“Thirty.”

Samia stared. That was almost larger than Sabellian’s brood, and that was only a _quarter_ of the Netherwing faction?

Jealousy caught her throat. How lucky they must be, she thought, to have outer-family mates to love and hatchlings to have.

“Thirty,” she repeated, swallowing down the sour feeling.

“I had planned for a guard to stay, and the rest to make their flight to the Dark Portal,” Neltharaku explained.

“You’ve thought about this very much, haven’t you?”

“There is little to do but think when one is drowning in their own fluids from poison,” the nether-dragon said without humor.

Samia laughed once – a quick, amused huff. “I guess you’re right.” The humor fell from her face. “And if I went instead of you?”

“Those nether-dragons to volunteer would follow you with their lives,” Neltharaku explained. “Regardless who led them – me, or you.”

Samia nodded slowly. She locked then relocked her jaw.

This was too tantalizing.

But – but if she went, the Netherwing would protect her family, as well as the other elder black drakes she did not take with her. And if there were at least fifteen of the nether-dragons –… that may be a good flank to beat back any other assaults.

And if she did die across the Dark Portal -

“Neltharaku,” Samia said, “if I were to die, the care of the Black Dragonflight would be in your hands until my siblings grew into maturity.”

Some of the elder drakes were very close to that. Five, six months, perhaps, until their horns grew in and their size and elemental strength solidified.

Even still…

The Netherwing stared at her – then, slowly, he bent her head to her, then his shoulders, until his long, pale blue hair fell down across his face and his bow was not only one of respect, but of submission, a bow to one’s leader.

Samia almost gaped, but she bit her cheek hard to stop herself.

“I will do as much as I can,” Neltharaku promised. He straightened, and nodded to her. “In your father’s absence, you are the leader of the Black Dragonflight – and I know well what it feels like to watch your family be put through such overwhelming hardship, Samia. I will not allow my relatives to go through the same, and I will not allow this ‘Black Prince’ to bully about the Netherwing, in turn, as if we were nothing but a small distraction.”

Samia swallowed. She nodded. Her claws tightened against her sides.

“Thank you,” she said, her gratitude thick in her voice.

Neltharaku nodded.

Samia looked away and out at Blade’s Edge.

She had to make her decision. She knew it.

Neltharaku had offered to go – but as she had said, this was _her_ family’s fight, not his, despite the death of his own children. It had started when that blasted blood elf had attempted to kill Talsian, and would end with the Black Prince dead.

It had to end that way. It _would_ end that way.

“I’ll go,” Samia murmured. “I will find my father and save him from whatever fate he’s befallen – and if he is already dead, then I will kill the Black Prince myself or I will, too, die trying.”

“My nether-dragons will follow you, my niece,” Neltharaku said. “You will have your pick of the thirty.”

“Are they good with mortal weapons?”

Neltharaku paused at the sudden question. “I suppose. Yet their mortal forms are… compromised.” He gestured gently to himself, at his jelly-like skin that was so like his dragon form’s.

“I don’t care about that,” Samia said. She didn’t need to sneak about with _this_ mission. “I have a secret here that my father knew about.” The dragon smiled. “And some of my elder siblings. I’ll have to share it with the most skilled of your brood.”

Neltharaku raised a brow questioningly.

Samia’s smile fell. A very sudden thought had occurred to her. “I don’t know where my father or the Black Prince _is_ ,” she snorted, shaking her head and running a hand over her face. She pinched the bridge of her nose, careful not to jostle the silver piercing there or the cut against her face. Samia groaned quietly. So much for all of that brave talk. “It might take weeks to find him in Pandaria.”

“You would have a hunter to track,” a voice interrupted, and Samia snapped her head over to the left, her hand dropping from her face.

Rexxar stood off to their side. Misha stood beside him. He was idly stringing his bow and did not look up at first, but did when Samia saw him.

“How long have you been there?” Samia asked, bewildered. She hadn’t even heard, or smelled, him coming.

“For enough time to listen,” Rexxar said. He eyed the string of his bow, plucked it, then slipped it across his back. “I will go with you, Samia. It would be my great honor.”

Samia squinted.

“You haven’t been back to Azeroth in years,” she said. It was not like she was _… not_ gracious for his offer, but she was plainly confused.

“Mm.” The half-orc slid his hands over Misha’s head and the bear grunted. “That’s true. But my father has not swayed from his position here, and I have seen the whole of Draenor. Perhaps it is time to revisit my old home before I return once again for my father’s second judgment.” Rexxar nodded; the tassels of his wolf helm swayed. “Going across the Dark Portal to save a friend is more than enough of a reason,” the hunter continued. He paused, and his usual frown became suddenly grim. “And I have heard rumors of the Horde I left that I would like to see for myself.”

Samia stared for a moment longer – but a quick, pleased smile flicked up her lips. “Excellent.” She crossed her arms and turned fully to the two. “That’s – thank you, Rexxar.”

“I need no thanks.”

Samia nodded. “All the same. Thank you.”

She took a deep breath. This plan of action was solidifying so quickly it almost felt fake to her.

“When will the nether-drakes arrive?” Samia asked.

“Half a day’s time.”

Quickly, then. She shifted her weight from foot to foot once.

“We need to set up those prey and water teams before we leave,” Samia explained. “And the guards that you’re bringing have to be instructed appropriately.”

“Of course,” Neltharaku said.

Samia paused. She could honestly think of nothing else. They had a tracker to find her father, drakes to follow her, her own brothers and sisters protected…

It hit her hard, then, that she was going home.

Her _first_ home. Not this place – though it had become her, _their_ , home, she supposed, by right of necessity. Samia looked around at the spiked mountains, the faraway forests, the craggy valley stretching out, endlessly, beneath her.

And she hoped, dearly, the Old Gods were not waiting for her, either.

“I hope you are ready to kill a prince, Rexxar,” Samia said with a smile, looking back at him.

“I am as ready as you are, Samia.”

Samia smiled.

“ _Good_.”


	18. Chapter 18

Kalecgos lifted his head as the cold breeze sluiced off from the golden metal rooftops of the White Tiger’s ancient temple grounds and sighed contently as the cool air washed over his face and blue hair.

He would have enjoyed staying here, he thought, as he walked up the long, winding stairs, cracked here and there from age and cold snows, that led up to the large expanse of the Temple of the White Tiger that stretched proudly before them in the darkness. Great golden torches entwined with tiger’s claws as the base marked the way up the long stairway and lit the snowy terrain in a gentle red glow that seemed almost amplified as it flickered along Alexstrasza’s face; she walked beside Kalecgos briskly, and the snow that fell in harmless wisps from above melted in her red hair. She did not seem effected by the chillier air.

"Are you cold?" Kalecgos asked anyway, shifting his shoulders, his blue cloak flittering behind him as they rounded up the stairs and into an outer part of the temple, a square, open room with tall white walls with exits that led out into other parts of the complex.

"No," Alexstrasza replied. She stopped walking, and Kalecgos did the same. In front of them was the largest temple of the three in the vicinity. It was beautiful, Kalecgos thought; its curling, golden designs upon the rooftop were both elegant and powerful, and its open pillars, guarded by two great stone, snarling tigers, solidified the feeling of strength - which was appropriate, the dragon mused, as the Tiger was the embodiement of it.

Footsteps, echoing loud in the quiet, caught Kalecgos’s attention. He looked over, and Alexstrasza did the same, as a pandaren monk came from the open archway to their left with quick strides, her long black braid bouncing behind her and her white-grey armor rustling.

"Hello!" The pandaren greeted cheerfully. She stopped and smiled at Kalecgos; she bowed, and Kalecgos did the same. He had been here before, and it seemed the monk recognized him. "Thank you for coming so quickly. We received your message through the hawk. Please, follow me - but," the pandaren paused and looked at Alexstrasza. "Who are you? I’m sorry! I don’t recognize your face."

"Alexstrasza," the red dragon responded simply. "But please, don’t worry about my presence. Where is the black dragon?"

The monk smiled. “This way.”

She turned and began a brisk walk from where she had come. Kalecgos and Alexstrasza followed.

Kalecgos watched the red dragon curiously. Alexstrasza had remained silent throughout the quick flight from his tower at the Wall until they alighted below the steps to the White Tiger’s temple, and her gaze had been faraway and thoughtful and her posture stiff. Something was bothering her - and Kalecgos did not know what, too wary and too polite to intrude and ask her.

The monk led them through another open room, its ceiling sliced off to reveal the winking stars and cloud above, before she turned and started over a bridge that led over a cavernous ravine that stretched far below into craggy rocks of the mountain. Kalecgos glanced down, hummed quietly to himself, then readjusted his shoulders again; his cloak kept trying to pull back away from him because of the wind, and it was becoming annoying.

"Here we are," the pandaren announced. She had led them to one of the side temples, a smaller version of the main building but no less impressive in terms of decoration. Kalecgos shied away from one of the torches as the pandaren led them up the short flight of steps and into the building.

It may have looked smaller on the outside, but inside, it was enormous. A high vaulted ceiling boasted articulate golden and red gilding that resembled tiger’s tails and claws and talons, and the walls were paneled ivory, thick, and radiated a gentle chill from contained cold from the air weaving in from outside. Red pillars stood proudly along the angled grey floor.

"Where are they?" Alexstrasza prodded, but politely. The monk nodded and moved off to the side, rounding around of the red pillars. She swept through a small archway. Kalecgos and Alexstrasza followed.

It led into a small room. The smell of incense nearly smacked Kalecgos in the face, and he wrinkled his nose, trying his best not to make a face at the intense, musky scent.

Kalecgos cleared his throat, wrinkled his nose again, and looked around. The room seemed to be a prayer room; statues as tall as he was lined the white stone walls, each carved into the likeness of the Celestials - Niuzao, Yu’lon, Chi-ji, and Xuen looked down at him with strength, warmth, hope, and courage in the gemmed stones of their eyes. Behind them stretched bamboo tapestries that illustrated the story of Xuen and Emperor Shao-hao in lilting brush marks and delicate but vibrant inks.

Kalecgos smiled, then turned his eyes to the front of the room. He inhaled sharply.

Laying down on a wicker mat was a young woman with black hair and dark skin clad in leather garb as dark as her hair. Another monk, a male pandaren with red fur, was kneeling at her side, but looked over his shoulder with aged grey eyes as the group entered the room. Though the scent of the insence was strong, Kalecgos could just make out the earthy, fiery smell of black dragon.

He looked at the girl. Her eyes were closed, her lips partially open. She shook violently, though sweat beaded her forehead.

Kalecgos noted her missing left arm; a thick gauze was tied at the end where her elbow had once connected her lower arm.

"We’ve tried all we can," the female pandaren murmured, lowering her voice in this sacred space. "Hopefully you can help. I feel utterly useless."

"That is no fault of yours," Alexstrasza said gently. She smiled at the monk. "I will heal her." The former Aspect hesitated before continuing. "Kalecgos will look after the artifact you took from her."

The blue dragon nodded. “Where is it? I’d love to take a look.”

The monk motioned to the side of the room to a small wooden cupboard lined with bags of herbs, candles, and rolled parchments. On the bottom was a leather satchel of the same black material the black dragon wore. It looked heavy.

Alexstrasza looked at him. Kalecgos nodded at her, silently, and the red dragon started forward to do her own task as the blue dragon went to the satchel. Their footsteps seemed so loud in this silent place, Kalecgos nearly winced every time his feet touched the floor.

"Have you studied it at all?" Kalecgos whispered, kneeling down to grab the satchel from the bottom, careful to keep his grip on the sling and not on the bag itself. He’d had enough problems with ancient arifacts before to know how to handle them, lest he find himself in a very bad, dizzy, headache inducing situation that he dearly wished he hadn’t been in.

The monk shook her head. “No. But there is something we did not like about it - which is why we asked for you, as well,” she explained, as Kalecgos straightened. The pandaren glanced behind her shoulder, and the blue dragon followed her look. Alexstrasza was at the black dragon’s side, now, and murmuring to the other monk in hushed murmurs.

"Here. Let’s go outside," the female pandaren suggested, and Kalecgos nodded, eager to allow the healers their privacy. He followed after the monk out through the same archway they had just come through and into the temple’s main space again.

"What don’t you like about it?" Kalecgos inquired as he held the satchel aloft and a bit away from him so it wasn’t touching his chest. The monk frowned; her ears tilted back slightly.

"I’m not sure. It’s hard to explain. It’s like -" The pandaren paused, then smiled brightly. "Do you know the feeling you get when you’re walking alone, and you have this itch on the back of your neck, like someone’s following you, though you can’t explain why and there’s no one there?" She pointed to the satchel. "It feels like that."

"Oh." Kalecgos looked at the satchel with more wariness, now.

Well, he thought, he wasn’t going to find more about it just standing here staring at a bag without any indication of what was inside.

And he was curious…

The dragon reached out with his free hand and undid the metal clasp holding the bag’s flap in place. He pulled it back slowly as if waiting for whatever was inside to explode or jump out at him with some sort of arcane energy, but nothing happened.

That was a good sign. A bit more relaxed, Kalecgos’s shoulders drooped, and he peered inside.

A glint of bronze and iron winked back at him.

He reached in and grabed the iron item, first. It was cool against his fingers, and surprisingly light as he lifted it from the bag.

Kalecgos smiled, amused, as he took it out. It was a small automaton, badly scuffed and dented, resembling a whelp. Its ruby eyes glinted at him dimly.

“What’s this?” He asked aloud, peering at it.

“Oh. That. That’s not what we’re talking about,” the monk said with a small laugh. “We didn’t know what that did, either.”

“Hm.” Kalecgos studied it for a moment -… but decided to place it back in the bag for later inspection. It wasn’t the artifact, though it did amuse him.

This time, his hand tried to grab the second object - but it was a sphere, he realized quickly, and so he had to carefully scoop it out.

Slowly, Kalecgos took it from the satchel, leaning his head back just slightly -… but frowned as he stared at the object.

This was it?

It was a small sphere of craggy bronze, bumped along the surface with lighter tones, and roughly about the size of his head. Kalecgos blinked. He squinted at it, turning it around in his open palm, but there was little else to look at.

The monk took the satchel from his hand, and Kalecgos mumbled a cursory thanks before taking both hands and encircling them against the bronze sphere. He turned it around again, tilting his head. The artifact was cold, and, judging by its weight, was not hollow.

He hummed thoughtfully.

“Do you know what it is?” The pandaren asked. She had taken a step back.

“No,” Kalecgos murmured. “I don’t.” His frown deepened. Judging by the use of gold and bronze, the artifact was surely of Titan descent; their Makers had used those metals exclusively in most of their inventions.

He focused inward and closed his eyes, then directed his energy into the tips of his fingers and the center of his palms, searching for the artifact’s own inward workings -

Kalecgos stopped. He felt a subtle thrumming from within - a hibernating power, to be sure, but there all the same.

His skin began to rise with goosebumps. He opened his eyes; the studying energy at his hands fled.

He’d felt what the pandaren had been talking about - an unexplainable wrongess that sent the hair on the back of his neck rising.

“I’ll have to study this further,” Kalecgos murmured, unnerved. “Do you have somewhere I could do it alone? I don’t want to accidentally endanger anyone.”

“Yes. Please, follow me.”

The monk handed him back the satchel and began to walk to the opposite end of the temple. Kalecgos gently slipped the orb back into the bag and followed -

Though the feeling of unease remained.

—-

The world stretched endlessly on in darkness.

Sabellian looked around suspiciously. No sky but thick, depthless black hovered above, and it felt as if he was not even standing on anything solid – he may as well have been floating, feet straight, upon a dark mist.

The air was not hot, nor cool, but possessed a lukewarm temperature that all the same sent goosebumps rising against the nape of his neck and behind his ears, the only places of tender skin that showed from his lavish outfit.

As if the bleak landscape was no indication, Sabellian further realized he was in a dream when he moved his hands forward and found they were no longer tied.

At least that was some good news - yet his wounds had apparently been too stubborn to remain only in reality. He winced and hissed as he spread his hands out in front of him curiously, watching them disappear in the darkness in front of him to test the sheer lack of light in this abysmal place, and the deep harpoon wound against his left shoulder thrummed, sending a bolt of pain down his entire left side.

Sabellian dropped his hands to his sides. He sighed and looked around again, searching for something, anything, to focus his gaze on – but with little to no amount of landscape to speak of, his eyes caught nothing of interest. It was as if this entire world was bathed and drowned in shadow – and the dragon didn’t like it.

Nor did he like the sudden feeling of simple wrongness that began to tingle at his ankles, his wrists, the back of his neck.

And he certainly did not like how familiar the sense of wrongness was – like an unwanted old friend slipping back at his side with long, smoky fingers that reached with an innocent smile up to his hair, pulling the thick black scruff back to rest cool at the back of his neck, pulling quietly, twisting, spiking -

Sabellian growled. He shook himself out despite the overwhelming pain that drummed like a second heartbeat in his left side, debilitating him from most movement – but it was the feeling, the wrongness, the sudden curling in the pit of his lungs, his stomach, that froze him to where he stood.

The dragon knew the feeling that crept around him like a serpent. It was not just familiar; it was what used to inhabit his consciousness for thousands of years, blanketing all sense of morality, of feeling, of independent thought that bounded out from the guideline his Masters so easily set in his mind -

Sabellian took a deep breath. For the moment, he tried to focus on closing his eyes and focusing on slipping up a barrier, an imaginary shield against his sanity, his mind, to block out any threat that wanted to slip in – like the wrongness that misted about him now like an ignored pet craving attention, brushing up against his legs, his elbows, his back.

But the pain in his wounds weakened his concentration – just as it had done as he stood chained and guarded and unhealed, and his composure had began to slip ever so slightly…

And when, hours before, that first itch had begun to drift, scratching, at the back of his head, Sabellian realized what was happening with such unabashed fear, any thoughts of focusing on escape died and were replaced with focusing on saving his own sanity – for he had realized, then, that his burst of anger while tied upon the ground with the overwhelming need to kill, to rip, to maim the Prince was the first warning, just as his claws twitching were, a need that had only solidified and spiraled slowly but surely higher until he forced himself to rein it in.

Though of course the idiot hatchling had decided to bother him while he was concentrating – and had further ignored his ask for healing.

Talsian, his son, his very dead son, had succumbed through the way of his injuries -… and Sabellian did not want to follow the same road.

He would not follow the same road.

No. He wouldn’t. For thousands of years he had been a slave, and he would not succumb again, no matter how insisting, how close and pressing, the feeling of wrongness, the ancient, terrible, whispering chaos, that looped about his body now, became.

Something far off grumbled and shifted in a papery whisper. Sabellian stood rigid, but did not open his eyes. He could not loose his focus – no matter what came slithering up to him.

Another shift, another grumble – then a long, deep hiss that vibrated in the dragon’s very bones that only amplified as whatever was moving around in the darkness came closer and closer until the air was no longer without temperature but instead cold, freezing, radiating off of the thing that had crept so close and he was closing his eyes to.

“Little black dragon,” a voice grumbled, a deep, ancient, rumbling voice, a voice of the dark earth and the caverns below the mountains and the tendrils looping below the crushing sea, and each word drawled out so slowly, so tantalizingly, it was if the thing craved every syllable. “You have returned to me.”

Sabellian inhaled sharply. He clenched both hands in fists and set his shoulders straight, yet even still he did not open his eyes.

He recognized this voice. In the cacophony of voices that had once inhabited and poisoned his mind, this one had been one of those that had whispered from faraway, as if it had spoken through a screen – but still Sabellian remembered. He remembered all of them – the near-soothing, gentle whispers of C’thun, the crazed laughing voice of Yogg’saron, the deep hisses of N’zoth, and all of the other nameless gods and their servants which forced his hand and made him slaughter thousands upon thousands of innocents.

“No,” Sabellian stated, forcing himself to speak, though his voice was strained. He was not weak, and could not look weak in front of this monster. “I haven’t.”

A rumbling laugh echoed about him. Sabellian swallowed hard, but scrunched his eyebrows together as he concentrated more intently on keeping the shield about his mind secure.

This was a dream, he tried to tell himself. A nightmare, like all the others he’d had since leaving the grip of the Old Gods, the memories of them too painful to fully forget.

Though the anger, the brief flash of nearly insane hatred, he’d felt whilst awake had not been a dream at all, some pessimistic part of him said. That had been very real.

“You find yourself in my domain,” the voice rumbled. Something curled around Sabellian’s ankle. He ignored it. “There is little hope for escape.”

“I do not hear your whispers, Old God,” Sabellian replied. He felt like he was in a fog, or else in some sort of daze; he spoke to one of his old Masters so plainly, so without fear in his voice despite the tight fear that coiled in his chest – but this was, of course, a dream.

It had to be a dream.

He hoped it was a dream.

“You do not have me,” Sabellian added.

A chittering, a whispering cacophony of hisses, began to vibrate at his back. Sabellian bit the inside of his cheek so hard he drew blood, and the iron taste was heavy on his tongue, and he wondered if he had ever had such a life-like dream with such vivid tastes and feelings.

“I whisper to you now, dragon,” the main voice echoed. “You will be mine again in time.”

“You whisper in a dream,” Sabellian responded with a scowl. “A fallacy. You’re too weak to reach me when I am awake.”

The hold on Sabellian’s ankle tightened. A chill ran up to his knee – only to become colder and slink up like a rising tide through his left side, brushing gently against both harpoons wounds at his waist and shoulder but just hard enough to cause pain and a promise of further agony, and Sabellian hissed through his teeth.

“I see you buckle through the mutilated flesh. Through weakness. Through pain.” The voice laughed, but it was not the crazed cackle of of Yogg’saron, but something deeper and more languished yet no less sinister. “Pain. Such delicious suffering. You feed me well.” The chill in Sabellian’s side drifted back down to his ankle again, though the hold remained. “You will slip from it. And you will fall. And you will serve.”

“I will never be yours to control,” Sabellian snarled. Still he kept his eyes closed. “I would rather die than endure being a puppet again.”

“Such arrogance,” the Old God grumbled. Another hold wrapped vine-like against Sabellian’s right wrist, and the dragon growled and attempted to tear away from it, only for the vice to tighten and yank his arm back in place. “How you remind me of another.”

Sabellian scowled. “Release me. I am not your prize.”

“Soon,” the voice rumbled. “And then your eagerness for blood will be tenfold.” A laugh. “How my own blood hungers…”

The dragon locked his jaw. Talsian had groaned the same sentence before Sabellian had snapped his neck with his teeth.

He offered no comment.

“You have already lost,” the Old God continued. “No one is coming to save you.”

“Perhaps not,” Sabellian said. “But I will not buckle before you.”

“I have seen your wrath,” the thing said, and suddenly the grumbling voice was so close to his ear Sabellian tensed and nearly winced. “I have seen your hatred. Embrace your rage. Let it consume your soul.”

“Never,” Sabellian snarled, only to be rewarded with another, slimy but strong grip around his neck that yanked his head back and held it there, like the chains that had bolted him to the harpoon.

“How I have missed the fury of dragons,” the dead God whispered. “Such strength. Such power. Such blood you will spill. So many lives will you shatter!” The Old God sighed out shakily, as if in euphoria. “The proud child has angered you. Destroy him. Rip his throat with your claws. Feel your anger. Gorge your hatred!”

A bright burst of red flashed against the dragon’s eyelids, and Sabellian flinched as a burning, vivid vision spiraled, forming in his mind’s eye so quickly he felt dizzy. It formed a bleak, dead landscape where the skies wept green meteors that impaled the blackened, scorched earth, and the rivers and seas ran with blood, and all the great cities of the world, amalgamating in one great muddle in his mind – the white stones of Stormwind, the iron spikes of Orgrimmar, the trees of Darnassus, the slopes of Thunder Bluff – lay in ruin, crumbled and decimated against the onslaught come and gone.

And above, in that green sky, a black and red form circled like a vulture, and focusing closer Sabellian saw others in the beast’s wake - and only then did he see that the black creature was himself, and the others his children, and a lithe black and purple drake flew beside him, and the dragon recognized him, too – and their claws were bathed not with the sticky green of demons, but with the red blood of mortals, and their eyes were alight with a craze -

“Stop,” Sabellian said, and his voice broke. “Stop this!” He snarled, and shook his head hard, though the vine-like grip around his neck made it hard to do so.

The vision disappeared so quickly the dragon lurched forward and sucked in a gasping breath as his senses cleared. The Old God chuckled.

“Weak,” the voice spat. “You see how easy it is - how easily I can enter your mind.” The vice about his neck yanked forward, and Sabellian growled in pain as he was forced to bow. “You grow weak while I grew ever stronger. Even now they dig… and dig… and I feel them coming, little ants upon my bones. I will rise, and you will fall. Give in. You have nothing.”

Sabellian took a deep breath. He had seen the vision before, but not in many years, and not in such detail. How many times had his Masters show him rivers of blood, the world in ruin, and chaos reigning?

Too many times. It had been the Gods ultimate goal, of course – a goal they used the dragons to attempt to accomplish.

But he had never seen the latter half of the vision. It was a trick, surely, and the Old God’s wish – it was just as false as its false promises were. Surely.

And though he tried to tell himself this, Sabellian was very afraid.

“I have everything,” Sabellian growled. “And I will not serve you.”

“Strong wills are the most satisfying to snap.” The holds about Sabellian’s ankle, his wrist, his neck, tightened painfully. “And your fall… oh, such fear I taste… your fall will bring the one who evades me, who evades Us, oh, yes, his fear I have felt before when he broke so quickly, so willingly. His fear I will feast upon, just as I feast upon yours…”

Sabellian growled.

“And your children, they, too, will serve… with such pride…”

His growl became a snarl.

“Such anger. It strengthens me. Grow… angry… Angrier! Angrier!”

Unbidden, Sabellian’s hands transformed into claws; his face elongated; horns grew from his skull as wings grew from his spine. The holds on him broke as he transformed fully, and he burst forth fire with a roar of both anger and fear, scorching the dark shadow he found himself in – though only laughter answered him, and the dragon dared not open his eyes to see the monster he could not kill.

“Yes,” Y’shaarj rumbled from the darkness. “You will do well.”

Sabellian stood very still and panted very hard.

“My servants near. Greet them, little plaything. They will sway you. They know. They listen. I will be watching. I will be waiting.” A coil of slimy mist draped against Sabellian’s snout, and the dragon growled and tore away before it could grab him. “I will wait for you to break.”

And then the floor, the strange floor of mist, opened, and before the dragon could even open his wings he fell through into darkness.

Sabellian woke with a start and sucked in a breath so loudly the four Blacktalons jumped up and shoved their weapons closer, hands tightening against their respective triggers.

The dragon ignored them; he hardly even registered they were there. He looked around quickly – but he was no longer in the realm of shadow. The dream had ended. He was awake and back in the encampment and his imprisonment. His wounds pained wildly, and his eyes fuzzed over with pain.

The dragon scrunched them closed and breathed out hard. His shoulders and head sank.

A dream. A nightmare. Nothing more.

Sabellian calmed after a moment – then fumbled to put up the shield about his mind again when he realized in his sudden wakefulness he had let it slip.

And he could not allow that.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, though the pain in his waist and shoulder remained.

It was deep, deep night. The fire at the camp was nearly dead. He did not see the hatchling, and was glad he didn’t; the black and purple drake in the vision was bright against his mind’s eye, but he shook it away.

A dream. It was just a dream.

A faraway crunch crunch crunch was quick to distract him. He glanced over to the right and squinted; a lithe black form was running across the field, weaving through the scorched hurdles of bark that lay strewn around the burned grass.

Sabellian watched with interest. The female orc with the ponytail went out to meet the runner – it was another Blacktalon, and the female human panted hard.

“Mantid,” the rogue managed to say, leaning forward to rest her hands on her knees to catch her breath. “They’re approaching from the Dread Wastes. Two dozen.”

The orc growled. She twirled about to face the Blacktalons.

“Don’t just stand there. Move!”

The rigid Blacktalons went into a flurry of movement. Sabellian found himself honestly admiring their preparation and movement, and their apparent ability to understand what needed to be done without a vocal word. Half of those standing by the fire promptly disappeared into thin air; the other half put out the dying fire and buried the remainder of a skeletal meal, stripped of all flesh. All movement was precise, planned, fluid, practiced, quick.

And all of it was done in silence, their movements nothing more than a whisper.

Wrathion may have been gaudy and egotistical, but he had chosen his servants well, Sabellian mused -

My servants near. Greet them, little plaything.

Sabellian exhaled hard. He flickered his eyes off to the side where Sik’vess lay.

Perhaps his dream had been no dream at all.

—-

Samia crossed her arms as the last of the nether-dragons alighted along the large slab of rock atop the black brood’s cave.

The flock had appeared as a blue smudge against the red horizon only minutes before; their descent had been like watching a storm cloud form as the lightning from the mass of smooth, scaleless bodies had amplified upon their approach, and the smell of ozone, sharp and crisp, had vaulted, and the scales along Samia’s neck had begun to rise like the hair on a human’s arm would, and the noise itself was like a subtle roar of thunder, so deafening even now, as the nether-brood folded in their wings and positioned themselves upon the cliff, that Samia had to shake her head, trying to get her ears to pop.

"Thirty of my sons and daughters," Neltharaku announced. They both stood in their dragon forms, side by side, in front of the clump of dragons, who took up the entirety of the spacious slab of rock; there was no room for shuffling about. It must have been uncomfortable, Samia thought, but the nether-dragons sat stiffly and readily, watching her with eyes alight with raw nether-energy. The lightning hissed and popped quietly about their bodies which ranged in color from black, to blue, to green, and even to white, which Samia had never seen before in their kind.

Samia nodded. She shuffled her wings once.

"Welcome," she said. "I’m grateful you’ve arrived so quickly and willingly. I’m sure your brothers and sisters have informed you of the situation."

Their heads nodded. Some shuffled impatiently. Samia watched them. Father had always said that their dispositions ranged as much as the color of their hides did; they could not be wholly pegged down as being as vicious as the Black Dragonflight, or as nurturing as the Red, or as mysterious as the Blues. The Netherwing was an anomaly; Samia would have to choose carefully which dragons she would take and which ones she would leave behind.

"I want this done quickly, and we don’t have very much time to spare, anyway," Samia continued. The words came naturally to her. "I’m sure you all think the same."

"We are ready," one of the green nether-drakes called out. Some of her brothers and sisters nodded at the comment.

"Thank you," Samia said again, and meant it. Without the help of the Netherwing, it might as well have just been Rexxar and herself whisking off to the Dark Portal, and Samia did not like the odds associated with such little numbers. "Your father tells me some of you are great fighters. Step forward if you are not humble enough to think so."

Roughly three quarters of the nether-dragons inched forward.

Samia smiled to herself. Good.

"Half of the fighters will be coming with me. The others will stay to protect the brood, along with those who do not believe themselves to be strong enough to embark."

They nodded in understanding.

Samia took a deep breath. This was happening so quickly. She looked out at the side where the black dragons, her own brothers and sisters, looked up at the meeting. Most of the hatchlings had scurried from the cave as the strange nether-dragons had arrived along the sky, and now gawked up at the warped brood quietly, while most of the other black drakes watched with more grim looks; they had heard Samia’s plan earlier, before the nether-dragons had arrived.

The black dragon sighed and looked back at the nether-dragons.

"I was told I would have the choice pick for who would go, and who would stay." She paused and flexed her claws along the hot rock beneath her paws. "But I don’t think that’s fair. Those of you who have already stepped forward as fighters and who would like to go across the Dark Portal, step forward now."

Most of the fighters stepped forward. Samia glanced at the others who had stayed behind.

"Thank you for your honesty," she said. "You’ll be guarding my family instead." Without time for them to reply, Samia looked at those who had stepped forward. "I need more, however, to stay behind." She scanned her eyes across them. "Neltharaku, please, if you would choose. I would like a battalion that has different skills. I can’t go into a battle with only scouts, or a scouting mission with only warriors." She turned her large horned head to him.

The nether-dragon nodded in understanding. He looked forward at his sons and daughters, his nieces, nephews, and all his other relatives, before stepping forward.

He began to choose. Samia watched quietly. The nether-streams above echoed their gentle whisp of moving air throughout the valley, and she could hear the hatchlings starting to play down below, no doubt bored with the meeting’s sudden silence.

She turned to watch them. There were roughly a dozen hatchlings, and nearly all of them were tussling with one another in a mass of black scales and orange, red, and yellow wings, dry dirt pluming up from where they tackled one another with chirps and whines and play-growls. A small smile grew up her maw - but it was quick to slide back down as she looked over the rest of her siblings. They were all looking at her - Ylaria, Thalarian, Vaxian, Pyria, all of them. Waiting.

Smoke curled from her nose as she looked away to watch the nether-dragons again. Unease was thick in her throat. She swallowed hard.

She would have to take some of her brothers and sisters along, as well. She was grateful for the nether-dragons, but this was her family’s struggle, first, after all - and it was only right for some of her own kin to come -

But it meant putting their lives in danger. Ylaria had already volunteered and some of the other elder drakes had expressed their interest in more than an enthused way of coming along to save Father and kill their murderous sibling, but Samia had said nothing. Father had tasked her with taking care of the brood - not putting them at risk.

And if she did die beyond the Portal, then she would need to leave behind elder drakes who could care for the rest.

“This should be efficient,” Neltharaku said, interrupting her from her thoughts. Samia looked up, the fins on her neck rising. A group of twelve nether-drakes stood before Neltharaku. They looked at Samia. “Their skills will be highly beneficial, and highly unique. I trust they will be more than efficient for you.”

“Yes. They will.” Samia nodded briskly to the group. “You will follow me, then?”

“Yes, Samia,” one of the nether-drakes said, and Samia realized it was Feraku, the blue drake who had helped kill the rogues. “We’ll do all we can.”

Samia allowed herself a genuine smile, dropping the grim seriousness from her face. “Excellent. Thank you. We’ll leave in a half day’s time - but first, I have a bit of a surprise.” She opened out her wings. “A moment, though, please. I need to speak to my brood.”

Samia turned and jumped, sailing, down the side of the cliff, spiraling down to rejoin the other black dragons. The hatchlings stopped playing when they saw her; Alacian unlatched himself from three of his brothers and sisters, who had pinned him down, and trotted up with a wild grin.

“So you’re gonna go fight the bad guy?” He asked as Samia tucked in her wings and nudged him with her snout before arching her neck back up.

“Yes,” she said with a small smile. The dragon looked out at her silent elder siblings. Her smile fell. “I wish I could take all of you. I’m sorry.”

“You can take all of us,” Ylaria said vehemently. Her fins were raised, alert, and her tail whisked from side to side in aggravation. “The nether-dragons will watch the hatchlings.”

“No. Most of you will stay here,” Samia argued. “I can only take two or three of you.”

“Two!”

“Two,” Samia repeated. “The nether-dragons will be a great help in protecting the brood, but some of you need to stay behind to assist. You obviously know more about how black dragons work than a distant relative does, and I can’t risk too many of your lives.”

Ylaria frowned, displeased. Her tail continued to swat back and forth like an annoyed lynx’s.

“Who will be going, then?” Vaxian rumbled. He watched her silently.

Samia hesitated. She’d thought about it, but now was the time to confirm it - she only hoped she was making the right chose.

“Vaxian, you and Pyria will be going.”

The thick-bodied elder drake bent his head in a quiet, bowing nod. The much smaller Pyria, with her light red belly and wings and bright, yellow eyes, puffed up, pleased.

Ylaria ground her teeth silently, brooding.

“I can’t take all of the best fighters with me,” Samia explained. “That would just be an imbalance of resources.”

Ylaria opened her mouth as if to argue.

“And there’s no discussion on this,” Samia said before her sister could get a word in. “Vaxian, Pyria, come with me. We’re going to the Cenarion Expedition’s encampment.”

Vaxian looked at her in understanding. Pyria tilted her head.

“Why there - oh!” She chirped and grinned. “Nevermind. I remember. Are we really gonna’ share that with the bothersome nether-dragons, though? They look so unhappy.”

“Yes. Maybe it will make them smile a little bit,” Samia said. Pyria chrrred in amusement.

Samia opened her wings again. Ylaria didn’t look at her, but Thalarian, at least, seemed relieved he wasn’t going, while the other drakes looked somewhat disappointed.

“Ylaria – gather some of the other nether-drakes that are staying behind. Vaxian assigned you to the prey team, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “Why?”

“I need you to fly the vicinity of Blade’s Edge. Take charge of a small group of drakes and look for any other dead animals. Burn them if you do. We don’t need any more poison spreading, and we still don’t know how much death its caused.”

Ylaria nodded stiffly.

At the very least, they would distract her, Samia thought, as she turned around, opening her wings.

“Vaxian, Pyria, follow me,” Samia intstructed. She bounded forward and caught the wind, spiraling gracefully upwards despite her bulk, and shot out above the cave where her own dozen of nether-dragons waited.

“Follow!” She ordered, and with a great crackling of nether and shuffling wings, they responded, lifting up after her, Vaxian, and Pyria, to sail over the forest.

“Where are we going?” One of the nether-drakes asked. It was the ivory colored one Samia had thought odd in coloration just earlier. The black dragon looked back at her, frowned, then looked ahead again, the wind whistling.

“You’ll see. It’s just ahead.”

They flew in silence save for the beating of their wings.

Samia looked down, squinting. A large tree’s canopy marked their destination, growing high above its kin’s and dotted with gentle purple and yellow leaves.

Samia folded her wings and dove at a casual dive, breaking through one of the gaps between the trees.

They followed her, and they landed together.

Samia looked around as she shifted into human form and stretched out her arms above her head with a content rumbling. She’d led them to another of the Cenarion Expedition’s outposts, this one nestled deeper into the forest and on the opposite side of its twin.

Three squat, wooden buildings encircled the abandoned encampment; judging by their rough appearance and the musky, familiar smell coming from their open doors, it looked as if one of the local wolf packs had taken the mortals’ forgotten structures as temporary dens, though Samia did not see any wolves now.

She started forward as the last of the nether-drakes landed. Beside her, Vaxian and Pyria shifted into their own human forms; Vaxian became a human with short, nearly buzzed, black hair and a cropped beard, and boasted a thick, muscled body that resembled his drake form, with a surprisingly slim face that did not seem to fit with the rest of his form, and Pyria shifted into a short human with long, loose, dark hair and a pointed, grinning face. Vaxian wore black, plain metal armor while Pyria wore red plate with spikes along her shoulderpads.

The dozen nether-drakes followed their lead and shifted into their human forms. Samia didn’t look at them; she started forward, rounding about the moonwell in the center of the outpost, whose water still glowed, and made her way to one of the buildings.

“Here,” she murmured, mostly to herself, as she slipped inside. Vaxian and Pyria waited outside.

The building was smaller inside than it looked from the outside. It was dank and dusty, and her feet crunched along debris, mostly dead, dried leaves, along the floor as she turned to a tall metal cupboard at the nearest side of the wall.

“We can’t fit in there,” Feraku said, frowning in confusion.

“No, you can’t,” Samia said. She opened the cupboard via a hidden latch at its side, hardly seeable in the dark of the one-room building.

The door swung open. She wrinkled her nose as a swath of dust curled forth.

Inside was an impressive host of weapons left behind by the Cenarion Expedition and the Wyrmcult that had once inhabited the northern forests and had given her more than one headache.

There was more than enough to hand out to the nether-drakes and her brother and sister.

“These weapons will go out to each of you,” Samia said, pulling out a long, curved, black sword with a silver handle from the neatly organized pile of weaponry. She showed it to the group outside, and they stared. “These are usually given to my brothers and sisters for training when they grow of age to fight, but today, I think you all need them more to fight this Black Prince.”

“How did you know this was here?” Feraku asked. His white hood was lopsided across his face.

“I posed as a human here for some time, ridding the forests of the Wyrmcult,” she explained, then pulled out a large staff with a red sphere at the end and tossed it to Feraku. He caught it clumsily. “They were a… pest, to say the least. But the Cenarion Expedition trusted me pretty well; they showed me their supplies.” She winked and gestured to the cabinet. “I guess they couldn’t carry everything about with them.”

Samia went on to hand Vaxian a large ebony sword he’d used in training before, and Pyria twin yellow daggers that she immediately started tossing up and down with practiced skill.

“Alright. We’ll hand these out, practice – then we’ll say our goodbyes and go,” Samia said. She put the sword to hang at her belt. “Line up!”

—-

Wrathion was not having pleasant dreams.

He was never one to have pleasant dreams, but tonight’s seemed worse. He weaved in and out of darkness; his mind’s eyes flashed with pulsing, muddled images, both familiar and not – great mountains made of spikes reaching towards a sky of blood, creatures made of blackened, green flesh with fel-fire gushing from their pointed maws, shocks of blue nether-energy, a dragon made of stars. He watched his hands transform into great curved claws, watched himself sink them into his champions’ guts, then Anduin’s; he watched himself walk down a pathway deep in a mountain, where above him hung rotting corpses of all the dragonflights, their heads, their arms, their wings, sown away. He watched as a machine descended and tore his arms off to replace them with different ones, and he could do nothing but stand there, frozen.

“My Prince,” a warbled voice murmured through the fog. The machine, with his golden claws, was descending again, this time to pluck out and blind his eyes.

“My Prince,” came the voice again, more insistent, as the claw opened. Wrathion groaned, and pain shot up his right arm – though really it was not his arm at all, but someone else’s, sown there, fused -

Something shook his back – and with a dizzying gust the vision, the dream, flew away into darkness and then a spark of light burst against his eyes.

Wrathion shot his head up and opened his eyes, waking. He inhaled sharply as his vision adjusted from the jarring shift in reality.

Left stood before him, withdrawing her hand from his back.

“What?” Wrathion grumbled, blinking lopsidedly. He was too tired to even stretch out his aching muscles against the branch he now balanced on ,and – he paused. How had Left even reached up here? The dragon glanced down, squinting, but saw that the height was not that far from the ground – and Left was rather tall. He yawned. Oh.

“Mantid approach,” the orc said briskly. “The camp has been put out. Your orders?”

Wrathion narrowed his eyes.

He thought he’d heard wrong, at first -… until he looked around the rogue and saw that half of the Blacktalons were gone – hiding, no doubt – and the fire had been put out. Sabellian had not been moved from his temporary holding spot.

This was no dream, and Left would never lie. The Mantid were coming.

Wrathion hissed. Not now!

He shook out his wings, accidentally knocking them against the red leaves that draped over him, before jumping from his perch and shifting mid-leap into human form, landing hard but straightening out quickly. He tucked his cast arm close and turned to Sik’vess with a scowl.

“How close are they?”

The orc beckoned over one of the rogues that had remained visible – a human with black, cropped hair that stuck to her face with sweat. She saluted Wrathion stiffly; he realized she’d been one of those he’d sent to scout ahead after the Shado-pan’s visit.

“A mile,” she reported, breathing heavily as if she’d run very far. “The mantid were examining Sik’vess. We did not see the Shado-pan, and the others stayed to watch their progress.”

“And how many?”

“At least a dozen, if not more to follow.”

Wrathion ground his teeth. “Now, of all times,” he muttered, inwardly cursing the Shado-pan for being right. He had enough problems to deal with – and now the bugs?

He looked up at Sik’vess, hazy against the dark horizon. Some of the wood ripped from the tree, even now, continued to smolder with a deep, burning glow of red.

“We will move aside, further beyond the path,” the dragon ordered, thinking quickly.

“And Sabellian?” Left asked.

“Ah.” Wrathion slid his eyes over to the elder dragon. “He will have to follow, of course. Unchain him from the harpoon. Use force if you must.”

“They were moving quickly, Prince,” the human rogue said. She took a deep gulp of air then set her shoulders rigidly.. “We need to hurry.”

“I know,” Wrathion scoffed; he was vaguely insulted that his agent would not think he knew such a thing. “If the dear Shado-pan were correct in their assumptions, surely the mantid are only interested in Sik’vess – but retreating is always a liable option for caution, wouldn’t you agree?”

Wordless, Left moved away towards Sabellian. Wrathion followed, keeping his eyes on the kypari tree, waiting for any signs of fluttering wings to appear on the horizon in-between the shadows of the red-leaved trees of Townlong.

The Blacktalons guarding Sabellian had, apparently, overheard their prince’s orders; already their deft hands quickly and efficiently ran along the harpoon, unbuckling and unchaining the elder dragon’s holds with gentle clicks and clacks of twinkling metal; that, and the very sounds of the mortals breathing, remained as the only sounds in the plain. It unnerved Wrathion greatly, and he shook out his shoulders as if to rid himself of the feeling.

“Expecting company?” Sabellian drawled. His orange gaze was directed at Wrathion; deep, black circles wore down below the alchemist’s eyes, giving him an exhausted but somewhat haunted appearance.

Wrathion knew the look well; he’d seen it many times in the mirror upon waking up and washing off his face after a night of bad dreams.

“Hardly,” he replied, brushing away his earlier thought. If his relative was having bad dreams like him? Good. It was only fair, of course. “I do hope you can walk.”

Sabellian didn’t reply.

“Hurry up,” Wrathion snapped impatiently at the rogues working at the chains. He started to tap one of his feet. The mantid could appear at any moment if they were so close to Sik’vess.

“Got it,” the red-headed blood elf announced, pulling back with his hands full of chains.

“Well, don’t just stand there! Move out!”

Three of the Blacktalons flanking Sabellian swept forward, though kept their fronts to face Sik’vess and their back to the Black Prince in a guarding shield. Left took her place at Wrathion’s left side, and they began to retreat back into a safer distance -

“My Prince, he isn’t moving!” Came an aggravated yell from behind.

Wrathion turned back. The blood elf was tugging hard at the chains, but even with the elf’s strength, Sabellian did not so much as flinch or give away any leverage. The harpoon wounds across his shoulder and hip did not appear to be hindering the alchemist, either; the dragon had his feet fixed firmly on the ground and his balance was set stiffly, and he looked at the blood elf with an annoyed but vaguely amused tilt in the corner of his eyes as one might look at a yapping, snapping dog.

Wrathion made an aggravated, whining grumble in his throat. “Move, Sabellian.” He pointed out to Sik’vess. “I don’t have time for this.”

“No,” Sabellian replied. His eyes did not leave the blood elf. “I would rather stay.”

“The mantid will kill you,” Wrathion scowled.

“The way I see it,” Sabellian interrupted, smoothly, his eyes drifting over to Wrathion and locking on him like some lazy, orange-eyed predator peering at prey from the bush, “is that I will die regardless. If I must die from these mantid, so be it; I will not be dragged around like a dog.”

“Hit him,” Wrathion ordered. Left was the first to surge forward before the others seemed to even register the words – and with a streak of gold she struck out her metal crossbow and slammed it across Sabellian’s face with a resounding crack that made even Wrathion flinch, and for a mere instant he was back at the burning Tavern, the other dragon’s fist smashing against his face with nearly the same sound ringing in his ears.

Sabellian’s head went jerking to the side - and even with his dark skin, the bloom of swollen red began to form quickly against the elder dragon’s cheek where he’d sustained the blow.

Left stayed close, as if waiting for another order for a second hit.

Slowly, Sabellian turned his head back, his black hair falling across his face. The black-yellow bruise had swelled up the entire left side of his face in a mark that looked as painful as it probably felt.

But much to the elder dragon’s credit, Sabellian gave no indication of pain.

“Charming,” was all Sabellian muttered, then he spat out a wad of blood from his mouth, his teeth stained with red.

“We should kill him here, and get away,” Left growled. Her hands were tight against the crossbow, and Wrathion did not miss the strain in the locking of her elbows, as if she was stopping herself from hitting the dragon again on her own accord and without his order.

“Your prince won’t give that order,” Sabellian sneered. He jerked back his head back to try to get the stray strands of hair from his face off, though it worked little. “He’s too frightened. Look at him.”

Wrathion growled. A dull tugging began to coil, gripping, at the seat of his stomach. “Not here, Left. If you would please -”

“This is foolishness,” Left interrupted with a snap. “He’s done enough harm. There is no need to keep him alive anymore. Either we kill him now or the mantid will descend in a moment’s time, and I will not die on this stretch of grass just because you do not know what to do!” The orc gripped the trigger with a more intent and practiced movement of her fingers. “- My prince,” she added gruffly and with a lowered voice, and Wrathion was almost too shocked the rogue had actually interrupted him to respond– and Sabellian took the silence for himself with a loud scoff that sent Wrathion’s eyes to him, instead, as if he were nothing more than a frightened animal focusing on the things that were making the most noise, all while the coil in his stomach was only worsening, becoming fiercer, hotter, angrier, making the edges of his skin begin to buckle with small goosebumps.

“Well? Go on, Black Prince. Listen to the servant. Kill me. I have seen the dagger at your belt.”

“You are too useful for me to slay so quickly,” Wrathion started, puffing himself up. Some part of him was whispering fiercely. What was he doing, it chided? Why was he keeping Sabellian alive for now? What had made the thought quietly, subconsciously, crop up in his mind before the dragon had even been in his possession, as he’d requested the King, in his smooth, practiced, voice, to keep the elder dragon from an early execution?

For what purpose? He scrambled to find some excuse. Sabellian was from Outland, for one, he thought; he must have known about the demons. Yes, of course. An excellent idea to keep him alive. Sabellian had questioned him; it was only fair Wrathion returned the favor. Who knew what the dragon had learned from the Burning Legion that Wrathion himself had not?

And Wrathion had to be fair -… at least, in this situation. No one was going to demean him like Sabellian had managed to and get a free snapped neck so quickly and easily.

Some other, quieter, whispering reason was tugging at the back of his head -…

No. He ignored that. It was ridiculous.

“Why are we keeping him alive?” The red-headed blood elf asked then.

“My own reasons,” Wrathion replied with a small snap to his words.

It was then he realized all of his agents were staring at him with an open confusion and – was that distrust?

Your Blacktalons glance at your back as your composure slips and they see how much of a child you are who has no idea what to do with me.

Wrathion locked his jaw.

“The mantid are gonna be on us any minute,” one of the Blacktalons, accent thick with that of Westfall’s southern region, said. “Can’t we talk about this later?”

“We won’t be talking about it all,” Wrathion huffed. His thoughts were whirling; his ears begun to buzz, and the the goosebumps along his arms began to itch. The angry tension curdled up into his lungs. “This is my business and none of yours.”

“We’re your elite,” the blood elf said. Instead of focusing on Sabellian, he was looking at Wrathion, now. “We’ve done more of your ‘secret’ missions than anyone.”

Wrathion narrowed his eyes. What was with the sudden attitude? What were they implying?

Sabellian was smiling with amusement.

They were all watching him. Wrathion flailed for a good answer -

-… And then came to the staggeringly obvious realization, as he stood there, his crossed arms curling their hands into fists across his upper arms, that he was very, truly, overwhelmingly tired of feeling like this – so full of doubt and self-pitying that he didn’t even know what to do in a situation he would have previously handled without the slightest hesitance or worry.

“Listen,” the blood elf continued, while he stood there in the small heartbeat of quiet hesitance, “you’ve been acting strange ever since you got sick and the Sha got you. We’re your damn Agents for a damned reason. Trust us. Left isn’t the only one you need to confide in.” He gestured his head, his red hair swinging across his face, to Sabellian. “And I don’t mean sending us for sacrifice to Blade’s Edge, or whatever the hell the others ended up going to.”

“Are you giving me orders?” Wrathion snapped. His left arm fell from its cross across his chest and he gestured it with a pointed claw in a vicious slicing motion to the blood elf. “I didn’t hire you to whine and cry at me -”

“And I didn’t sign up for you to whine and cry at us!” The blood elf interrupted.

Sabellian laughed under his breath.

Wrathion gawked, momentarily stunned an agent would actually talk to him like that.

The other Blacktalons looked uncomfortable underneath their leather masks. Most looked at the blood elf with open wariness, their hands on the hilt of their weapons slung across their silver-lined belts, as if waiting for their prince’s orders, while the remaining handful stared at Wrathion with a frustrated expression that mirrored their vocal comrade’s.

Left still had her crossbow pointed at Sabellian, and did not look at Wrathion.

“You are just a pawn,” Wrathion growled. His own Agents were now looking at him like his own disgruntled champions had!

And for what?

For acting ‘strange?’ What did -

No. He knew. Of course. The very same emotions the Sha had fed off were what were making him act ‘strange.’ Another growl rumbled in his chest; his left hand curled into a loose fist, the tips of his claws digging into his palm and nearly drawing blood.

If he had acted strong – without hesitance, without worry – these Blacktalons wouldn’t be staring at him like he had just screamed gibberish, he thought. They signed up to follow the Black Prince, he thought; not some doubting child.

Well, Wrathion thought, the anger from his lungs now fuzzing hot in his head, he was not going to have any more of that.

He took a deep breath. No. No more. He stood with his enemy injured and in chains and very much in his control because of his own plan and his own skill, and he didn’t have time for ill thoughts anymore -

Nor did he have time to care about what he was doing was right.

All that mattered what was what he thought. No more tugging of doubt from the wisdom of the Celestials or Anduin Wrynn would plague him, either.

It was time to brush away the remainder of his weakness.

Wrathion knew what he was doing.

He was the Black Prince.

The nervous coil in his stomach fell away to be replaced by sheer anger, and he drew himself up with a snarl rumbling idly from his throat in such a promisingly violent manner that even Sabellian raised a brow in surprise.

The human Blacktalon with the accent took the ill-timed moment to try to speak. “We should probably be movin’ -”

“Enough!” The Black Prince exploded, his voice carrying over the winds. “I know what I am doing and no one will tell me otherwise!” Smoke huffed from the corners of his mouth and for a moment he had the very strong idea to scorch fire, his chest felt so hot, but he reigned in the instinct. “The next agent to look at me like I have little to no idea what I am talking about will both find themselves without an occupation and a head – and don’t think I can’t see you staring, because I can,” he added with a huff.

The blood elf lowered his eyes – as did the other Blacktalons who had looked at him with wariness, Wrathion noted with growing enthusiasm. Good. At least they remembered who was in charge.

He took a deep breath and smiled, bitterly, without humor.

“Now that that was cleared up -”

Wrathion stopped. He tilted his head.

Had he imagined it -?

No. There it was – a small, almost imperceptible, buzzing vibrated in his inner ear, faint at first, but steadily growing louder and quicker -

One of the Blacktalons struck her back upright in a surprised snap of motion, withdrawing her dagger with a loud shring of metal, and pointed it out at the blackened horizon. “Mantid, sir!”

And before Wrathion could realize what was happening, a wild jangling and then a sudden scream of metal burst through the cracked silence just before a fiery rumble exploded underneath his feet and sent him sailing backwards.

The world twirled in a blur around him, but he was quick to twist around and transform into whelp form, striking out his wings, to stop himself from falling on his back.

He struck up, straightening out, acting purely on thoughtless instinct – and as his vision cleared, he saw Sabellian throw the blood elf who had held his chains across the hidden camp to smash him into the tree Wrathion had just slept in, and the rest of the Agents falling on their backs as the shockwave the elder dragon had sent through the ground rumbled violently underneath.

How had -?!

Wrathion shifted back into human form; his eyes darted quickly over to Sabellian’s hands in the brief second the giant crack of bark burst forth from the elf’s impact and the elder dragon straightened -

Only to see the see the smaller, now broken metal chains falling down from Sabellian’s arms to clang to the grass.

“Left!” Wrathion yelled, and the orc, who, too, had lost her balance, forced herself up and lunged at the now-unbridled dragon who turned to face her with a grim scowl and, raising his hand, swatted her off to the side as if she was nothing more than a gnat.

“A foolish idea not to use the Titan chains along my hands,” Sabellian quipped, kicking one of the Blacktalons nearest to him down again as the worgen tried to struggle to his feet. The buzzing in the background was louder. Wrathion hissed and crouched slightly into a defensive position.

Sabellian had used the mantid and the agents’ disruption to his advantage. No wonder he’d been so quiet; he’d been trying to break apart the chains!

The Titan chains, however, remained along the dragon’s neck and chest; as Sabellian moved forward, their own electric buzz mingled with the oncoming vibrations of the ancient bug race, and Sabellian flinched.

Wrathion backed up a step. Some of the Blacktalons leaped to their feet and drew their weapons, but Sabellian was quicker; he struck out his right hand and a screaming ball of flame shot forth from his palm to slam against two of the agents and send them flying backwards like the blood elf, who remained slumped at the tree’s side.

With Sabellian distracted on his rogues, Wrathion took his chance – he sent his own flame forward, knowing well it would do little in terms of its elemental strength against another black dragon but forcing its pressure into high magnitudes with a shift of focus on his part, and it smashed into Sabellian’s side; the elder dragon stumbled and turned to him with a snarl, only for a golden arrow to pierce one of his arms. He jerked back with a surprised growl.

The buzzing was wildly loud now. Wrathion chanced a glance behind Sabellian just as he saw Left jump out at the elder dragon – and his mouth dropped open.

It was not just a dozen mantid. It was two dozen – a golden-brown mass of blurring, translucent wings and flashing amber and metal that surged forward from the broken ruins of Sik’vess the mere half-mile away from the Blacktalons and the dragons, and coming up fast, a flurry against the horizon.

“Move back!” Wrathion yelped, though it hardly mattered; most of the Blacktalons were still trying to get up and only being slammed back in the ground via Sabellian’s ferocious fire spells he managed to flick off his fingers while Left engaged with with a long, crooked dagger.

The ground rumbled underneath him again. Wrathion knew the warning sign; he jumped before Sabellian’s ground maneuver could lift him from his feet and, in the air, turned his attention to the freed dragon as he landed, teeth clacking.

Left was gone. Wrathion did not see her.

Sabellian advanced.

The Black Prince shot off another pressurized flame, but the other dragon only ducked, the spell disappearing harmlessly behind him; Sabellian winced as he was forced to move his shoulder in the simple maneuver.

But Sabellian was too slow - and before he could engage Wrathion, the buzzing in the background became so loud it seemed as if the whole world had been struck to vibrate like a gong; Wrathion could not even hear his heart beat amongst the cacophony.

A mantid descended with a chittering, high-pitched wail a foot away from Wrathion, its clear, veined wings flapping wildly, so fast they seemed invisible, and struck out its amber polearm at him. Wrathion ducked and turned away, the weapon shrieking above his head as it finished its graceful but harmless arc.

It came at him again - it was nearly two feet taller than he was - swinging its weapon in a practiced, vicious swirl - but Wrathion was fast. He dodged a second time just as the rest of the mantid came upon them, a two dozen battalion of mantid fliers.

"Kill these intruders," ordered one of the soldiers who remained aloft in a strong but emotionless voice, clad in silver and dark purple armor that covered most of its hardened, golden carapace and partially hid its angeled, wide-eyed head. "They have destroyed Sik’vess. For the Klaxxi!"

"Ah - we did not destroy your tree!" Wrathion tried to yell, but the din of sudden battle was too high for his voice to carry over. At least, he thought, dimly, his Blacktalons had gotten to their feet and faced the bugs head-on.

How had the mantid even known it had been them to destroy Sik’vess, anyway, he wondered, just as the first soldier to engage him stumbled back as three crossbow bolts thunked into its abdomen. Wrathion finished it off with a thoughtless burst of fire, and the soldier twitched and fell in a quickly smoking pile that smelled of burnt paper and acid.

Fire! Wrathion grinned wildly. Of course! They would burn so easily!

He turned, raising his arms, and with his teeth bared back in a grinning but vicious snarl, shot forth a stream of roaring flames from his outstretched left hand, careful to keep his cast arm close lest the gauze catch aflame, as well. Six of the nearest mantid caught fire and jerked back, and the Blacktalons who had been fighting sliced them apart as their bodies’ enemies smoked so quickly that it nearly blinded him.

Wrathion turned. He saw Left, her neck bleeding, fighting three of the mantid with crossbow and dagger and easily holding her own - but he could always help. The dragon aimed -

Smooth cold wrapped tight around his neck and jerked back - and then a sudden burst of electricty shot through his shoulders, his back, his legs, and into his feet, and he cried out in surprise before his voice was choked by a tightening of the metal and he gagged. He grappled at the chains with his good hand, but another shock burst at his fingertips and he tore his hand away with a silent wince, and began to be dragged backwards, quickly and quietly, away from the loud and distracted Blacktalons and mantid.

Wrathion kicked out his feet wildly. Grass struck up from his heels. None of the Blacktalons saw him be dragged behind the red tree, where the blood elf had vanished from.

He was twirled around and slammed into the back of the bark; he hissed and smacked his head forward and managed to slam it into his assailant’s shoulder with a jarring oomph of bone on bone that hurt Wrathion as badly that it seemed to hurt his kidnapper, who snarled but kept his grip on the Titan chains now along Wrathion’s neck tight.

“Stop moving,” Sabellian hissed, struggling to keep Wrathion still with only one hand, his other limp at his side.

Of course - his other had been injured by Alexstrasza. Wrathion took the opportunity and arched his back, lifting his knee up with a jerk and smashed it against the other dragon’s twisted wrist.

Sabellian growled in pain. He tore away, and his grip on the chains loosened just so - how was he even holding them without being shocked? -

Wrathion tried to duck underneath the loop of metal around his neck - but he was too slow. Sabellian recovered from the blow to his hand and snapped his grip tighter again, so tight Wrathion started to see stars pop at the corners of his vision as he struggled for breath. The sound of the mantid and the Blacktalons struggling in battle become muffled.

“Listen to me, hatchling. Stop.” The chains loosened. Wrathion gulped for air. The din of the fight behind them resurfaced chaotically again; the shriek of the mantid were so loud the Black Prince felt like his ears were going to burst.

Wrathion focused on Sabellian. He squinted his eyes and panted hard, but stilled, playing along. He would have to get the dragon’s guard down before he could try to escape again. Left had surely realized he was missing by now. Where was she -?

Sabellian glared down at him. His hand holding the chains around Wrathion’s neck was shaking; it was shocking him, but he was withholding the pain. Half of his face remained a dark, fleshy red from the blow Left had given him, and the smell of blood was thick. Wrathion wrinkled his nose.

“Yes?” Wrathion asked, snootily, as if they were not hiding behind a tree from the mantid, one chained and the other chaining, but instead in a far more casual affair. “I’m a trite preoccupied, and I don’t want my head ripped off by bug-people, thank you -“

“Have you heard whispers?”

“I - ah - whua -?”

“Whispers. Old Gods. Speak the truth.”

What was he talking about? Wrathion squinted. A mantid began shrieking before a crackling pwoof blew forth, and the wail stopped. “No! This is ridiculous! I’ve never heard them.”

But, some small, forgotten part of him muttered, he had - once, twice, three times in the darkness of his warped mind when the Sha had controlled him.

He scrunched his eyes closed. He didn’t want to remember - something about remembering it would be some admittance to himself he wasn’t sure he could handle - but the grumbling, ancient voice that had itched at the back of his mind, goading him forth like a whip and stirring up his craze while in the haze of the demonic force, could not be forgotten.

A mere toy.

I feast on suffering.

Sabellian growled. His grip tightened. Wrathion flinched and opened his eyes as another shock of electricity coursed through his neck and into his chest.

“You’re a liar,” the other dragon retorted. “I’m hardly surprised.”

“Oh, what does it matter? Surely we can talk about this later? Have you noted the screams of the mantid, or are you really that much of an imbecile?”

“Don’t call me the imbecile,” Sabellian scoffed. “But listen to me. I am asking for a reason -“

“Oh? You’re not just spouting nonsense? My mistake.”

Sabellian narrowed his eyes at him. Slowly, he exhaled, and Wrathion noted the pained shake in the dragon’s breath.

“For once,” Sabellian started, his words as slow as his sigh had been, “listen to what people are trying to tell you.” A human scream tore through the air, above the din of clashing steel and clacking carapaces. “I do not call you deaf just for an empty insult.”

Wrathion glared, but he stayed silent.

“Those mantid are His servants, and I will not stay here to be slaughtered or taken hostage by them,” Sabellian explained, nodding his head to the side of the tree to indicate where the battle was being fought. “And I will not be subjugated to being near any that serve something I am trying hard to avoid, hatchling.”

Wrathion huffed. “It’s as if you think I want the same thing. If you hadn’t been so stubborn, we’d not be in this mess.”

“Oh, no. I wanted you and your sheep to be in this ‘mess.’” Sabellian raised his injured hand. “Freedom comes with a sleight of hand, unless you hadn’t already realized. Hopefully these ‘mantid’ will kill the rest of your agents.”

Wrathion growled.

“Yet that’s hardly my point.” Sabellian focused in on him seriously. “If you have heard Him, boy, he will keep coming for you until all you hear in that dim brain of yours is His voice. Do you understand? Whatever purified you made you on the same level as the rest of us; it did not make you immune.”

“Why are we talking about this?” Wrathion whined. “I don’t care if I heard Him. They aren’t controlling me. And you sound like you’re trying to help me, and I won’t fall for some conniving scheme of yours - and I do not need ‘help’ in the first pla- ” He paused. He frowned at Sabellian. “How did you know the mantid were Y’shaarj’s servants?”

The other dragon didn’t even hesitate in answering. “Because He told me,” Sabellian replied with a grim, humorless smile. “And He was eager to share that He hopes to snatch you, too.”

Wrathion studied Sabellian. He was looking for some lie, some flicker, that would give him away, but the dragon looked back at him without the slightest hint of emotion other than irritation. In the background, the mantid screamed.

“That was the first time you heard Them,” Wrathion said, slowly. “Was it not?”

“They find it easier to infiltrate you in dreams,” Sabellian replied. “I have not yet heard Them awake.”

No wonder Sabellian looked so exhausted. Had the slowly encumbering madness been what Sabellian had been trying to focus on avoiding earlier?

Wrathion swallowed.

This meant two things - provided Sabellian wasn’t lying, and Wrathion did not leave that option out.

One, it meant Sabellian really wasn’t corrupted, and Wrathion’s own doubt, annoying as it was, about the conundrum had been right - and only made the situation worse, because then what was he killing Sabellian and his family for?

Two, it meant Sabellian was succumbing, and Y’shaarj was coming after them both, if the elder dragon was serious.

They find it easier to infiltrate your dreams.

Wrathion locked his jaw. He’d had dreams with the Old Gods before - but they’d been nightmares. Nothing but his own subconscious fears that had cropped up into his sleep to scare him -

Right?

“You understand, then,” Sabellian said.

“This has nothing to do with me,” Wrathion snapped. “Your descent into madness is not entwined with my own imaginary one. I am free of the Old Gods and will remain as much!”

Sabellian scowled. “You stupid child. You aren’t listening to me.” A low growl rumbled from the elder dragon’s throat but Sabellian soon shook his head, stopping it. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and refocused on Wrathion with an annoyed tilt to his eyebrows. “No matter. I tried. And now we are leaving. I do not like these mantid, and I do not want to get closer to His servants. As I said.”

Wrathion tried to pull back, but Sabellian tore him forward. The chains buzzed.

A sharp hiss of air sluiced above them. Wrathion looked up in alarm - just as a blurred, golden form struck downward and smashed, legs extended, into Sabellian’s chest with a crack and sent the other dragon to the ground, onto his back; the elder dragon only managed a somewhat high-pitched snarl of surprise before he fell.

The chains were loose! Sabellian had let go during his fall. Wrathion grinned. Hah! Idiot! He snatched onto the limp chains against his neck, flinching as the electricity bolted up into his wrist, and tore them off -

His ‘rescuer’ turned to him, stepping off of Sabellian, who groaned in pain.

It was a very tall, very foreboding, mantid. His hardened carapace was a dull gold, and he wore a chest-piece of blue and purple decorated with sharp angles that separated the two colors. From his shoulder-pieces sprouted twin, iron, crooked arm-like appendages, and he wore a helmet that covered the majority of his face, save for his large, multi-faceted eyes, much like the leader of the squad wore - but the most striking thing about the mantid was the size of his wings, which were nearly twice the size of his body, and which possessed thick muscles at the base. It was largely unusual, and even Wrathion, who had never actually seen a mantid with his own eyes, realized that.

“Ah - thank you,” Wrathion said quickly, backing up a quick, subtle step as the mantid readjusted its grip on an amber polearm. He put his good left hand behind his back and summoned fire to flicker at his palm. “You’ve done me a great favor!”

The mantid stared at him, antenna twitching. Sabellian hadn’t moved; Wrathion glanced at him. The dragon was sprawled on his back on the grass, one hand draped over his eyes, as if he’d hit his head too hard. Wrathion would have laughed if he wasn’t sure he was about to be dismembered by a bug.

“You speak too much,” the mantid complained after Wrathion began to open his mouth to continue. Its voice was a clack, a hoarse, but precise, chittering - and the dragon came to the starting realization that he could hear it very well because the sounds of battle had stopped.

Which was not, he guessed, a good thing, if the mantid before him was acting so nonchalant and not as if it had just lost.

Wrathion did not take any chances. He bore his teeth back in a snarl and whipped his hidden hand out in front of him, and the fireball with it; the spell spiraled forward, its aim well on track -

The mantid blurred. Wrathion gaped. How had it moved that fast -?

The soldier whooshed back into clarity - right in front of his face.

And before Wrathion could dodge, the mantid struck out its folded appendages that were tucked up near its armored chest and threw him into the back of the tree.

Wrathion hit against it, hard. His teeth rattled in his skull and the impact sent his vision blurring.

He groaned and, unable to do anything else, slid down into a clumsy sit, legs sprawled in front of him as he clutched his head.

The grass crunched in front of him. Wrathion looked up and blinked. Everything was still a bit blurry, but he could see the mantid approaching.

“Do not try the fire again, lesser creature,” the mantid chittered. It sounded annoyed. “I do not enjoy the flame.”

Sabellian was trying to quietly get to his feet behind the mantid. Wrathion glanced at him; his look gave the elder dragon away to the mantid, who whirled about and kicked the alchemist down via a blow to the head, which sent Sabellian on his back again with a pained snarl.

Wrathion tried to take the distraction to summon another flame. He raised his hand -

An amber sword came to point along his neck from the side. Wrathion growled. He looked to his left. Another, smaller mantid, missing one of its antennae, eyed him silently.

“Shall I kill this one, Kil’ruk, or would you like the blow yourself?” The mantid chattered, its tucked, secondary set of arms rustling near its chest.

The large-winged mantid, apparently satisfied with Sabellian on the ground, looked back over at Wrathion. “Leave him,” he ordered.

Wrathion stared at the large mantid. Kil’ruk? Was that not one of their paragons?

“The rest have been taken care of,” the sword-wielding mantid continued. It kept the tip of its blade remaining at Wrathion’s throat.

Wrathion swallowed. He glanced to his other side and tried to see around the tree, but he could not crane his head around without causing alarm to the mantid, and he did not want a sword in his throat.

“Good. Kill them.”

“Wait!” Wrathion interrupted. So they weren’t dead? “Now, now. Wait. There’s no need to kill my agents. I can assure you that this is a - ah… complete misunderstanding.” He smiled, but Kil’ruk just stared at him. “We did not destroy Sik’vess.”

“Our sonic transmitters reported truths,” Kil’ruk replied, unamused. He gestured to the destroyed kypari tree, then off to the left, pointing at something unseen. “The vibrations of the explosions were caught in the wave. The scouts saw the situation. Do not try to fool me.”

Wrathion felt his smile wobble.

“Ah. Well. Let me clarify. The dragon behind you was the one to destroy the tree.”

“Dragon,” Kil’ruk repeated. He hesitated, then glanced at the other mantid. They chittered to one another in a series of clacks and grumbles in some unintelligible language. Wrathion scowled. He could understand many languages, but not theirs.

“Yes,” Wrathion said, raising his voice to be heard over their secret conversation. “That dragon.”

Kil’ruk twitched his twin antennae. He turned his armored head to study Sabellian, who was sitting up but still holding his head with one hand, apparently too dazed to move, and muttered something under his breath.

“Sik’vess was a treasure,” Kil’ruk chittered, slowly turning back to Wrathion. “Our last Empress’s corruption gave way to the slow agony of many of the kypari trees. We have saved many since the death of her madness. I do not like ‘dragons’ destroying one of the last.”

The tip of the sword tilted in deeper at his skin. Wrathion ground his teeth and cleared his throat.

Well, he thought, at least the fighting had stopped. That was some good news.

“My apologies,” Wrathion said, putting on his air of charm, though he wondered if it would even work against these strange creatures. He might as well try. “But it’s no fault of mine! Take the one behind you. We shall leave accordingly.”

Sabellian looked up and glared at him through his fingers.

“No.” Even so, Kil’ruk gestured to his comrade. The mantid took away its sword, and Wrathion sighed out in relief, but in some confusion, too. He rubbed his hand against where the sharp tip had dug. “You are a ‘dragon’ too. I can smell the same scent on you.” The paragon’s antennae flicked up and down. “Like a saurok. Beast.”

Wrathion huffed, indignant.

“What is a paragon doing on some regular scouting mission, anyway?” Wrathion quipped.

“This is no scouting mission, lizard. We kill those who strike against us. A destruction of a kypari tree is a capitol offense, and I will slaughter those who seek to uproot our Empress’s new power so easily.”

Ah. That’s right. They had a new Empress.

“But we will not kill you,” Kil’ruk said after a moment. “No. Not yet.”

“Wind-reaver -“

The Klaxxi paragon silenced his comrade with a look. He spoke something quickly, mandibles click clack clicking.

The other mantid shook its head and argued back. Kil’ruk snapped at it, and the other went silent.

The Wind-reaver turned to Wrathion once again. “Rise. You will follow.”

Wrathion shifted. “Follow where, exactly?”

“Elsewhere.”

The dragon frowned. “I was thinking of an answer more specific -“

“Your voice irritates me,” Kil’ruk interrupted. “But He is clear. You will follow. We will please Him with this offering.”

Wrathion felt a nervous twinge curl at his gut. “Who is this ‘He’?”

Kil’ruk chirped and clacked to the other mantid, and the soldier reached down and plucked Wrathion from his clumsy sit, forcing him to his feet. The Black Prince glared at the creature before brushing himself off.

This was good, he thought. They weren’t outright killing him, and with their previous comment, it seemed that some of his agents were still alive; he dearly hoped Left was, at least.

What was not good was why they were taking him alive.

Sabellian was right. The mantid had been the servants of the Old Gods, willingly, and without the corruption that had plagued the Black Dragonflight.

Who was this ‘He’ Kil’ruk had mentioned?

Wrathion realized he did not want to know.

All he needed to focus on was getting away. Quickly.

But he would play along, first. Find a weakness in their defenses -

“Kill the others, now,” Kil’ruk ordered, and the other mantid turned to carry out the command.

“I will come with you willingly if you keep my agents alive,” Wrathion interrupted before the lesser soldier disappeared behind them. “At least, the orc. Leave the orc alive.”

Kil’ruk chittered, displeased. He looked at the other mantid and they spoke again in their clacking language. The soldier made a series of aggressive swipes with his free hand, and his antennae twitched, while Kil’ruk stood calmly and shook his head.

If his agents were alive, he would have more back-up, Wrathion thought.

And, of course, he did not want Left to die.

“Yes. We will kill half, then. The others shall die if you step out of line,” Kil’ruk said. The other soldier disappeared. Wrathion ground his teeth.

They were prepared to die for him. They knew what they were getting into when they signed up. It hardly mattered; at least half would remain.

Kil’ruk turned his attention the chains. He touched them idly with the end of his pole-arm; Wrathion expected him to jerk back, but he did not. The mantid only let out an amused chitter before turning to Sabellian.

“You. Stand up.”

The elder dragon scowled. Slowly, he stood. Wrathion noted that Kil’ruk had kicked him where Left already had, and Sabellian’s left eye was sown shut with a pasty yellow bruise for it. Wrathion smiled for that, at least.

He did find himself confused on why Sabellian wasn’t attempting to shift and escape, however. Wrathion studied his brother warily. Were his harpoon wounds that egregious, or was something else at play?

With how terribly things were going - the mantid, honestly? Why couldn’t he just go back to the Tavern with some peace? - he wouldn’t have been surprised if Sabellian was planning something worse.

A cold wind coming from the north brushed at his hair. Wrathion turned his face away from the chill.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Sabellian look at him.

“Use your flame. I will distract him,” the elder dragon said, but not in Common - in Draconic. Wrathion blinked in surprise, but a slow, small smile lifted at a corner of his lips. The Klaxxi thought they were clever hiding their plans from them with their own tongue; Wrathion was glad the dragons had their own to confuse him.

Wrathion nodded.

Sabellian stood straight, now. Kil’ruk was watching him impatiently. The cold wind ruffled at the trees; Wrathion heard the buzz of the mantid left in the camp vibrating idly behind him, heard their appendages clack and click as they moved, their amber armor rustling -

Sabellian lurched forward. He swung out a fist and it collided heavily with Kil’ruk’s helmet, and the surprised mantid stumbled to the side before lifting its pole-arm.

Wrathion, for a brief, instinctual moment, realized that if he did nothing, he could escape and leave Sabellian, who was far too weak to fight fully or even shift.

The Black Prince raised his hand. Flame burst forth from his palm. Then again, he thought, he probably wouldn’t get far.

Kil’ruk swept out his pole-arm, and Sabellian only just managed to duck out of the way. His movements were too sloppy, too strained. Wrathion hesitated a moment more - he could fly fairly fast to get away -…

He let loose the flame.

It collided with a hiss against Kil’ruk’s lower back, where the purple-blue chest piece ended. The mantid hissed wildly and twirled to face him, smoke pluming forth from his carapace, and Sabellian took the opportunity to shift his hand into great claws and swipe them against the Wind-reaver’s shoulder.

The paragon screamed in fury. He jumped from the ground as Sabellian went to deliver a third blow and disappeared into the sky.

Wrathion took one large step back to try to use the tree’s leaves as cover.

A loud scream of wind tore down from the sky, as wailing as any rocket, and a blur of gold shot in front of him, and with an oomph! his feet left the ground and he went sailing backwards, landing hard on his back.

Kil’ruk stood atop his chest, crouching.

Wrathion groaned and scrunched his eyes closed.

The surprisingly light weight lifted. Wrathion hardly register it. His whole head was ringing; all he wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep and make the headache go away.

A loud snarl snapped him from his stupor. Begrudgingly, he creaked open an eye and looked over; the whole world was on its side. Through the odd angle, he watched Kil’ruk and Sabellian trade blows before the paragon landed the end of his amber pole-arm into the open flesh of the elder dragon’s shoulder, and the alchemist jerked back with a wince before Kil’ruk shoved him down.

“Pathetic,” the paragon spat.

Six mantid flew from the encampment, antennae rigid and straight along their heads, alert from the commotion. One of their swords was stained with red.

“Guard them,” Kil’ruk snapped. “I tired of dealing with the foolishness of fleshier races.”

“Yes, Wind-reaver.”

“Dispose of another of the lizard’s soldiers.”

One of the mantid flew off.

Wrathion tried to struggle to his feet as two of the mantid approached. Kil’ruk strode over, intercepted his comrades, and snatched Wrathion up by the scruff before lifting him to his feet and holding him in place.

“You will follow,” Kil’ruk said, repeating his earler comment. “Or you will die. Do you understand, lizard?”

“My name is Wrathion,” Wrathion huffed, puffing himself up, though Kil’ruk still held him in place like he was nothing more than an animal to be held aloft by the neck and it hardly helped his dignity. “And it seems you’re intent on killing me anyway because of your precious amber tree,” he added with a bit of a whine. “ _Why_ would I go willingly, then, hm?”

“Because we will speak, and you will listen.”

Wrathion frowned. This is what his champions must have felt like when he tried to speak in riddles.

It was very infuriating.

“And…?”

“And if you listen, and He is pleased, you will go, and we will not kill you.” Kil’ruk spoke without emotion.

Wrathion shifted. He cleared his throat.

Play along, he reminded himself.

“Of course,” Wrathion said with a small smile. “Lead on!”

Kil’ruk’s mandibles swayed back and forth in an amused-sounding clattering. He let go of Wrathion and turned to his kin.

“To the chambers of Sik’vess,” he ordered, and jumped into the air, disappearing from sight.

“Walk,” one of the mantid ordered, prodding Wrathion in the back.

Sabellian was on his feet again. Three of the mantid flanked him.

The elder dragon glared at him accusingly.

The mantid led them forward.


	19. Chapter 19

The mantid walked around them in an orderly flank.

It was dark upon the uneven plains, and it was only by the glow of the stars and the mantid’s glowing amber weapons that Sabellian could see where they were headed, though he knew as much by the paragon’s orders before he had flown off into the darkness.

Sik’vess. Sabellian sighed. In the thick night, he could just make out the blacker figure of the enormous, gnarled tree that stood yards before them, and in front of it, the large chunks that he himself had ripped from its side, the very damage that the mantid had come to kill them for.

His looked to his left. One of the tall, smooth-armored creatures walked beside him, and it held a long amber sword that curved at the end. Its oval-eyed head stared straight, and its antennae swished back and forth in nervous, jerking motions.

What odd creatures – though Sabellian had seen worse. He studied the secondary arms the mantid had tucked underneath its carapace and noted the two daggers held hidden there.

Bugs. Of course the mantid were bugs. Sabellian looked away as the mantid caught him staring and glanced over at him with its mandibles clacking in annoyance. The Old Gods always loved their bugs.

\- And their dragons, of course. The thought made Sabellian’s already irritated expression grow. No – he had not missed the hint of hesitated surprise in Kil’ruk’s voice when Wrathion had announced Sabellian and his true heritage so readily, the little fool… and considering Pandaria’s only “dragons” were the great serpents Sabellian had seen in his brief jaunt at the Jade Forest, it could only be assumed that the mantid had been told of them, the true dragons, before their arrival; it was the only thing that made sense about the paragon’s expression.

Someone had told them. And Sabellian thought he knew he – though he wished he did not.

A deep grumble distracted him. Sabellian looked up - thick clouds were forming on the edge of the horizon. A storm was approaching, and even then, as the dragon gazed upward, the wind began to pick up with a gentle, whistling howl that brushed back at his blood-soaked hair.

An uneven bit of grass caught the end of his foot; he stumbled. The sudden, jerking movement made him snarl as his aching wounds jostled, and he felt more blood weep down from his open puncture marks.

The mantid to his left glanced at him, but did not stop its quick pace. Sabellian growled, took a breath, and started forward again with his entire left side beating in fresh agony.

If only he was stronger, Sabellian thought with a growl, tucking in his twisted wrist closer to his stomach and lowering his eyes from the forming storm. He could have easily shifted into dragon form and crushed these soldiers like the simple bugs they were – but his wounds were too great, and shifting into his own natural form was a far-off possibility. Sabellian only had his sharp cleverness with him, now, and it would have to do.

He glanced over at Wrathion. The Black Prince walked to his right, surrounded by two other mantid, and held himself straight-backed as he glared forward, shoulders high.

Sabellian frowned. His words had indeed proved to be a wonder against Wrathion; the whelp had been so easy to emotionally damage that the elder dragon could have simply reached out and snapped the boy’s mental state in two if he so wished, and, if Sabellian knew anything, it was that mental damage was as spiteful as physical injury – and the deeper Wrathion was sinking into himself, the more distracted he would become… and distraction meant weakness. Breaking the chains had worked to Sabellian’s favor, then, but the rest of the plan had not. The dragon hadn’t exactly planned on being ambushed by the Wind-reaver. That had been a wrench he wished he’d avoided.

Annoyed, he studied Wrathion. It was true he’d broken the whelp, but now, looking at the self-proclaimed prince, it looked as if he was staring at a completely different person – perhaps the Black Prince Sabellian had first seen when walking into the Tavern, for no longer did Sabellian see the deep-set confusion and hesitance and fear in Wrathion’s eyes, in the slouching of his shoulders, or the curling of his claws. In its place was a masked, cool hardness over the boy’s face.

Wrathion had collected himself – or had retreated back into himself.

Either way, Sabellian found himself aggravated. All of his harsh words had been for something, for a reason, and now here Wrathion was, walking as if he had not been affected at all. Sabellian scowled, and wondered if he could reverse the sudden change.

He had little time to mull over it, for Sik’vess soon loomed in front of them.

Large chunks of bark and amber lay splayed in chaotic heaps around the kypari tree, and the precious sap glowed faintly in the darkness; in some bark, remnants of a deep smoldering fire remained still smoking. The mantid stopped them, and Sabellian looked around at the rest of his handiwork: the golden archway that led into the depths of the tree was halfway collapsed where he had burst through it, and the entire tree’s outside was suckered with craters against its side. The only thing that remained untouched were the high branches whose dull red and blue leaves whispered harshly with the cold wind from the north coming off of Kun-lai and the storm’s warmer wind blowing from the east.

A wild fluttering of wings caught Sabellian’s attention, and he looked up to see the large-winged Wind-reaver hovering above the destroyed entrance, haloed by the bio-luminescence of the amber from the hallway below.

“Lead them below,” Kil’ruk ordered, landing in front of them, his armor jostling metallically.

“Now, wait a moment,” Wrathion started, and Kil’ruk looked at him with a squint. One of his antennae twitched. Though the expressions of the mantids’ wide-eyed faces were difficult to read, Sabellian clearly saw deep irritation. “I’d rather we stay out here and not go inside your kypari tree. Surely whatever you have to speak about can take host outside?…”

“I do not like you,” Kil’ruk said. Without answering Wrathion’s concerns, which even Sabellian found viable, he turned back to his brethren. “Below,” he reiterated, then turned and disappeared down the archway with a buzz of his wings.

The mantid behind Sabellian prodded him with the end of its polearm. The dragon glanced back with a weak glare and saw that Wrathion’s Blacktalons were behind him - only four remained, and even then, their faces were bruised and bleeding and their black uniforms were stained with red. The orc had her head bent, but her eyes were trained on her Prince’s back, and Sabellian recognized the red-headed elf who had held his chains and the runner who had come bolting down the plains bringing news of the mantid.

“Go,” the mantid clacked, and pushed Sabellian again. Sabellian growled but, unable to do little else – what could he do, without the strength to even shift? - and started forward, too angry to even give a snide comment. He slipped around the jagged bolts of amber and bark and, slowly, began down the broken flight of stairs, crushed through where he had transformed only hours ago to attack the harpoons.

It smelled like earth and fire and the sweet, airy smell of the amber inside the smoldering kypari tree, and the destruction from the battle was as inherit in the hallway as it was outside. The walls were bowed outward, and blackened scorch marks lay streaked across the earth walls, and the blue harpoon that had fired at him remained impaled in the side of the wall and glinted in the yellow darkness. Sabellian glared at it.

“This is all your fault,” came a hiss to his side, and Sabellian glanced over to see Wrathion squinting at him from the corner of his eyes.

“If you honestly believe that, you are more of an idiot than I thought you were.”

“Quiet!” Snapped one of the mantid.

Wrathion glared but turned away.

In silence, they soon reached the end of the stairs. The large circular chamber opened up in front of them, and the shallow pool in the center rippled against the shadows, lit up by the amber floor beneath it which glowed with its own warm light – as did the rest of the walls. The amber seemed to shine brighter as the mantid made their way through the enormous, high-vaulted room, as if the substance was reacting to its users, and the golden light created a peaceful sheen against the monstrous looking bug race that led the two dragons forward until they were nearly at the opposite end of the room.

The mantid leading them stopped, and Sabellian was happy to oblige, for his wounds ached and he needed some bit of rest -

“What’s the matter, old man? A simple walk tire you out?” Wrathion whispered, and Sabellian shot a glare in the boy’s direction, but it only made a wry, malicious smile slip up Wrathion’s lips.

Growling, Sabellian looked away. Kil’ruk stood in front of one of the golden archways that led down further into unknown areas of the tree that Sabellian had not explored when hiding inside with Anduin Wrynn in tow.

The paragon’s back was to the party, and he spoke to two other mantid who Sabellian did not recall seeing before. The one on the left, who held a small fragment of amber in one of its secondary set of claws, was a bright gold, and wore a shoulder and chest piece of purple and yellow, lightly decorated; a small metal cape ended just above its fragmented ankles.

The second, to the right, was taller – taller than any of the mantid in the room. His carapace was a dull brown, but he hosted by far the most luxurious set of armor: twin shoulder-plates of dark and sky blue arched upwards from his shoulders, and a heavy neck-piece sat hoisted above his back. The triangular shape stretched upwards above the mantid’s oval head to frame it like a cobra’s hood.

The trio looked as if they were arguing, but about what, Sabellian could not hear. The tall mantid was shaking his head at Kil’ruk, while the other was excitedly chittering to the tall one was if he was trying to convince him of something.

“Quiet,” Kil’ruk snapped. “I bring forth our – guests.”

“Excellent,” the golden-hued mantid chattered.

One moment the gold mantid was there, then the next he wasn’t – and with a blur he reappeared in front of Sabellian’s face so quickly that the dragon jerked back with a surprised and instinctual growl. Up close, the bug smelled like paper and pulpy wood, and its large, multi-faceted eyes, gold and orange and white in color, glinted at him eagerly as they rotated around in their sockets like a chameleon’s.

The mantid’s curled antennae, as thin as the end of a quill, flickered once. “Oh, yes, how fascinating!” He looked Sabellian up and down before leaning away and swerving over to Wrathion to lean in the whelp’s face, too; Wrathion grimaced but otherwise did not move as he was inspected. “A bit smaller than I was expecting, but, yes, good, excellent.”

Wrathion scrunched up his face.

“You were expecting us,” Sabellian stated flatly. The mantid looked over at him with a quick bob of its round head, and the dragon’s earlier assumptions were confirmed. Something akin to unease twisted at his throat, sour.

“Yes. Promises of great allies to help the cause – yet we did not expect you here, you see. We only wished to kill those who had destroyed the tree, and perhaps salvage the damage done… I am sure you understand. But He whispered of dragons, and you are dragons, yes? Kil’ruk has said you are. Dragons of black hide, I do hope.” He made a purring sort of sound, deep in his chest. “Such things like Fate annoy me, but the Old One works in ways I do not even begin to comprehend! To even hear His voice after so many cycles…”

Sabellian squinted at the mantid. He sounded like a gushing cultist, and Sabellian had dealt with them too many times before, much to his regret.

“Rik’kal,” Kil’ruk complained. “They don’t want to speak to you – and you may examine them later. Come away from there.”

Rik’kal hummed a deep hum. He pulled back and clasped his thin limbs out in front of him, chitin click-clacking.

“Yes. These are the dragons,” Kil’ruk stated, as if the fact wasn’t obvious. “They are the gifts.”

“Gifts!” Wrathion huffed, and the whelp drew himself up sharply. “I am not a gift -… though, I am, but I am my own gift, not anyone else’s. Do share what this fuss is about.”

Idiot. The fool was only asking for trouble by speaking and complaining so much, especially when they were so outnumbered – it was easier, and smarter, to stay silent and look for a weakness than blabber on, Sabellian mused. He carefully kept quiet, but watched with narrowed, sharp eyes.

“You said we only had to listen, Paragon, and then we would be let go accordingly,” Wrathion continued.

“Yes,” Kil’ruk said. He eyed the Black Prince. “You will listen when we arrive. Xaril – lead the way.”

The tall mantid hesitated. “They look weak. The tall one is ready to collapse. I do not wish to spend resources on such unworthy creatures.” He rubbed his great talons together, and his slim purple chest-piece rustled, the simple noise loud in the quiet of the chamber. “He must be mistaken – or you must be, Kil’ruk.”

Muffled thunder grumbled from outside. The kypari tree groaned and creaked from all sides; the storm was strengthening. Something wet dripped from the curled roots of the ceiling and dotted near Sabellian’s feet.

“Doubt is weakness itself,” Kil’ruk clacked. He regarded his kin calmly, and the wings at his back twitched once. “These are the ones He promised – I am sure of it.” The mantid lifted his polearm and slid it against an amber hold that looped around his back. “I do not have time for hesitation, and neither does He. Do you question His orders, Xaril?”

“No,” Xaril snapped. “No. I simply question the worthiness of such fleshy -”

Kil’ruk let loose a series of aggravated chatters. Xaril hissed to himself in the mantid’s clacking language, but nodded stiffly. He squinted at Wrathion, then turned to start down the archway.

Wrathion scowled and started to try to pull back – but one of the mantid placed a sword against Left’s neck to Wrathion’s side, and the Black Prince hesitated. The orc growled and tried to twist out of the mantid’s grasp, but the soldiers hissed, and Wrathion quickly shook his head at her. Annoyed smoke drifted in a puff from the boy’s mouth and, shoulders sagging, Wrathion grumbled and started forward after the paragons with a gloomy glare.

The soldiers pushed Sabellian forward, and again they walked, and Sabellian’s wounds protested with every step.

He did his best to ignore them. It was difficult. Every movement was agony. Scowling, Sabellian attempted to distract himself by moving his hair, still sticky with his own blood, from hanging across his face with a quick sweep of his uninjured hand.

Another groan of thunder rolled outside. Sik’vess quivered around them.

They marched soundlessly through the second archway, which led down into another slim room. At the end was a tall podium made of dark, entwined metal that ended with a globulous sphere of amber that rotated, hovering, above a claw-like extension. It glowed and pulsed as Xaril approached it and set his clawed hand upon its smooth surface.

The end of the hallway gave a shudder. Bits of earth and rock fell from the top of the wall – and then, with a quiet murmuring of moving, sliding dirt, the wall separated at the center, pulled back by vines that Sabellian could only assume were the roots of the tree itself. Thick, wing-like appendages remained, dirt stuck to its veined surface, as a secondary doorway, but with a chitter from Xaril, they fluttered upwards and sunk into the ceiling of the newly-created archway to reveal a deep passage that led even further down into the tree.

Just how large was this structure?

There was little time for thought. The mantid goaded them to a walk again, and they delved into the new hallway; it was just just big enough to fit three across, but even then it was cramped, and dark, save for the raw chunks of glowing amber embedded into the earth walls, framed by sturdy, glistening roots as thick as Sabellian’s torso.

Further and further they descended, deeper and deeper into the earth. The storm became a distant grumble, but still the dirt shook with each faraway boom of thunder.

This was too deep beneath the surface for comfort. Sabellian locked his jaw and focused his hardened eyes in front of him, not daring to look to his sides, as if afraid he would see claws reaching out for him.

Even then, the unease that had pulled at his throat beforehand was now lodged in place as if he had swallowed a chunk of the sticky amber, and the feeling grew worse the longer they walked until every inch of his skin felt on end, pulling back against his own body like it was ready to flee. The elder dragon could physically feel the earth humming around him – gently, subtly, a mere vibration that was as subconscious and quiet as his own breathing, but there all the same. He tried to ignore it as he ignored the pain in his wounds, and it worked as little as ignoring his wounds had.

The earth was no friend to him. It never had been, and it would remain as much.

Sabellian grew annoyed, however, when he saw that Wrathion, walking in front, had his red eyes wide and alert and without fear. In turn, the earth seemed like it was a welcome thing for the young dragon, and a sudden pang of jealousy pulled at Sabellian’s chest. He growled, inwardly, at himself. What was he so jealous of? Gruffly, Sabellian forced the feeling away. Wrathion was as foolish as Samia was, to embrace the earth so easily and not know what lurked beneath it as he did.

After what felt like ages – Sabellian felt as if every inch of him was ready to bolt, but where could he go? - the spiraling hallway branched off into three forks.

The paragons led them down the one to the left, and soon the new hallway soon opened up into a chamber half the size of the main room they had left behind. As if given a silent order, the mantid guarding both Sabellian and Wrathion halted, and their talons skittered dryly against the rooted, earthy ground as they entered the chamber.

Sabellian felt goosebumps rise at the back of his neck. There was something indescribably wrong about the chamber – it was a subtle thing, like something wisping at his back, and reminded him of the feeling in his dream, which brought him no comfort.

Squinting suspiciously, the dragon glanced around. Though half the size of the main chamber, it was no less impressive. Enormous amber murals lay indented around the curved, circular walls, stretching up from the ground to the ceiling, which was a host of tangled roots, at least twenty feet high. In harshly angled illustrations, the artwork depicted violent scenes of days long passed and days that might as well have been the present: the mantid as a thick swarm surrounding their Empress, a large figure with a thousand curling arms stretching outward like a goddess, and the mantid, in another, swirling before another, larger figure, this one with seven snarling heads and a centipede-like body -

Sabellian looked away. Though crude, the murals disturbed him.

He looked around the rest of the room. Four thick-bodied pillars of dull gold flanked the center of the chamber in a square formation, and reached up to impale themselves through the roots above. Signs of the chamber’s previous abandonment and disuse remained evident in the thick clumps of dirt and grimy debris that clung to every surface.

It was very quiet, and the smell of wet earth and sour parchment was thick and musty.

“This room once hosted the great speakers who had the honor to communicate directly to He with Seven Heads,” Xaril said. His voice reflected off the walls and rebounded against the ceiling – and for a brief moment, his own dry voice sounded multiplied, a voice upon voices. The words slid back into the heavy silence, and with lidded eyes the hooded mantid looked over at Sabellian and Wrathion. “It is a great honor to be in its presence.”

“Not really,” Wrathion said. “I have no interest in Y’shaarj, thank you. May we go now?”

“The Old One had asked for your attention,” Rik’kal chirped. “It will be an easy talk, and quick. We Klaxxi do not like wasting time, and we are bound to serve under the God’s commands.”

“Mm. And we did not expect such a disruption,” Kil’ruk rumbled with his hoarse voice. “How quickly I would have skewered you for the destruction of Sik’vess – but perhaps its destruction of the outer walls was a necessary sacrifice.” He hummed thoughtfully. “Another test by the Old One to lead us to allies.”

There it was, again – the word “allies,” as if Sabellian and Wrathion had already pledged themselves to the very thing that had led to their Flight’s downfall.

“This is ludicrous,” Sabellian stated, and kept his voice even – for now.“Neither Wrathion or I are aligned with your Old Gods. You have no allies here.”

“No. No. But perhaps you will be after we speak,” Rik’kal said. “He wanted us to speak. To look for you in the darkness, and bring you into the fold once again. To show you the truth.”

All three of the paragons’ heads tilted at the same time, and at the same angle; it was so in unison, so robotic, that the simple motion was unnerving to behold.

They said nothing for a moment, only stared off into the void, antennae twitching, before their heads lifted again.

“He wishes obedience,” Xaril murmured. His shifting voice sounded far away, as if he found himself dazed. “He wishes for us to sway you. To show you there is nothing to fear but greatness.”

Sabellian scoffed. This was what the Old God was playing at? Simple persuasion? The idea was laughable. No wonder Y’shaarj, out of all the Gods, had been defeated. “He should have thought of that before sending nightmares,” the dragon huffed, nearing amusement.

“Visions,” Rek’kal corrected eagerly. “Visions of grandeur, of strength.”

“No weakness,” Xaril continued. “So many cycles have passed, and our strength remains unprecedented, as yours will, once weeded out. We are prepared.”

Prepared for what, Sabellian wondered?

“He can find other willing servants,” Wrathion quipped, but there was a new nervous shake in his voice that was almost imperceptible. “What, exactly, do you want? I have places to be, and I have been… distracted by unwanted measures enough, already.” His red eyes flicked over to Sabellian suggestively, and the elder dragon only returned the look with a bit more annoyance. Wrathion looked away.

Kil’ruk studied the two dragons quietly before he turned to stride towards the murals. In the silence, his scaled feet crunching against the root-entwined floor cracked loud and dry.

“Our Empress is young,” the paragon said after a time, and his voice, too, bounded off off from the disturbing mural, reverberating weakly. “She is yet too weak to lead us.”

Sabellian followed where the mantid stared - the Wind-reaver stood before the mural that depicted the Empress, her great figure a goddess amongst her speckles of servants.

Kil’ruk shook his head and clasped his claws behind his back. His wings fluttered once before he moved away from the Empress to stand before the first mural, the one that illustrated the monstrous form with its seven entwined heads. “We Klaxxi lead in her stead, as always – but we did not expect His return.”

“Y’shaarj is dead,” Wrathion interrupted. He sounded eager to prove Kil’ruk wrong. “Whatever you’re hearing are only echoes.”

Kil’ruk hummed thoughtfully. “No,” he murmured. “No longer whispers.” He stared up at the monstrous form that curled above him. From each of its toothed maws, the Old God breathed out curling mists that stretched out over mountains and plains. “We thought so, at first, when His voice entered our minds, more powerful even than the Empress’s.”

“But each day His voice grows stronger. His return is imminent,” Xaril murmured. “He has promised the return of our Empire.”

“An empire like the qiraji and the nerubians’, I suppose,” Sabellian mused. Xaril looked at him sharply.

“Yes,” Xaril said, bewildered.

“- Two empires that fell,” Wrathion said before Sabellian was able to continue, and the elder dragon glared weakly at the prince. “Their Old Gods could not save them, either. Doomed them, actually, if I recall correctly.”

“They were weak,” Kil’ruk stated simply, without hesitance. He remained standing in front of Y’shaarj’s mural. “They did not have the cycle.”

What was this cycle they were yammering on about? Sabellian glanced at Wrathion, but the whelp was staring at Kil’ruk – and despite the Black Prince’s brave words, Sabellian did not miss the subtle show of fear pulling down at Wrathion’s lips and eyes and shoulders.

So much for the steeled Black Prince Sabellian had seen earlier, the dragon thought snidely.

“And, somehow, dear Y’shaarj has promised us to help you,” Wrathion taunted. He huffed indignantly, and the fear evaporated from his face. “Well! If you Klaxxi do not like wasting your time, then you’re making an error talking to me about joining the Old Gods. Why would I ever do something so moronic? You would have a better time baiting Sabellian, here. Go on, Sabellian. Didn’t you just tell me that you heard him in your dreams?”

“As you have told me that you heard him as well, hatchling,” Sabellian snapped back, and Wrathion glared.

“I will tell you both what I have told the Wakener,” Kil’ruk said, ignoring the two dragons’ outbursts. He turned from the mural to face them, and behind his shielded, purple mask, Kil’ruk watched them with a serious glint. “We are both ancient races, mantid and dragons, even if your kind is a stranger to ours.” He slid his eyes over to Sabellian and kept them there. “You were beasts when we held empires.”

Sabellian said nothing, and neither did Wrathion.

Kil’ruk uncrossed his arms from his backs and walked closer. He stopped many feet away from them, keeping his distance, though there was no fear in his stance. “We mantid worshiped Y’shaarj, and it was He with Seven Heads that was killed by the Usurpers.”

“The Titans,” Wrathion correctly, and his defensive tone made Sabellian curious.

“Yes. Your ‘Titans.’” There was no malice in Kil’ruk’s voice. “They came upon the stars and with gold light that burned our eyes. In our blessed darkness, they scorched their magic upon us. They drove out our shadows, and our empire suffered, as well as our sister kingdoms of Ahn’Qiraj and Azjol-Nerub.” The Wind-reaver’s claws flexed. “Our Gods fought the intruders of metal skin. The earth shook with their battles. We mantid, and yes, the qiraji, the nerubians, we fought by His side - Their side. We fought eagerly. We were protecting our home from these alien beings who sought to wipe us from the earth.”

“Y’shaarj fell. Our empire fell with Him – but we rose again.” Still Kil’ruk’s voice remained even, without emotion.

“Good,” Wrathion quipped. “The Titans came to instill Order, you know. You certainly swayed towards Chaos.”

“There is no evil in Chaos,” Kil’ruk responded coolly. “Chaos is a necessity. It is a part of life. In our cycle, Chaos runs rampant throughout the swarm-born as they climb the Wall. It is through their ferocity, their unbridled fury, that Chaos chooses who will return as the strong, and who will die as the weak. Who were the Titans to say, with their weapons of gold and silver, that our way, that Their way, was not the right way? Who were they to choose?”

Wrathion looked confused. His eyebrows scrunched up, and he frowned. “I – well – the Titans were correct, of course,” Wrathion said quickly. “The Old Gods do little but corrupt and madden.”

“You have never seen your ‘God,’” Sabellian added smoothly. “I was once as foolish as you were, but instead of volunteering, I was born with Their whispers in my head. I had no choice in the matter.”

“Obedience is a quality They ask for,” Xaril said.

“There is a difference between obedience and slavery,” Sabellian growled. “And you were hatched long after Y’shaarj fell and yet here you are, speaking as if you, personally, were there when the Titans came – and so all you have are stories of His supposed ‘greatness’ and His own manipulative whispers to goad you forward.” The dragon’s glare grew fiercer, more burning. “He is not some benevolent God. He will not bless you, or give you strength. He is using you for His own benefit, you stupid, gullible creatures.” Sabellian jerked his head to the mural. “Your Old Gods led to the fall of the Qiraji, the Nerubians – and my own Flight, among many other lost lives. You have no idea what force you so willingly follow.”

“But we do,” Rik’kal exclaimed with an excited hiss. “It is true we were not there. We did not see the Old One, with his wrath and terror and rage. But we sense Him. We see through the sonar -”

“Rik’kal,” Kil’ruk warned, and the mantid went quiet. The Wind-reaver looked back at Sabellian, and his multi-faceted eyes glinted in the dark of the room. “We are not mad. We Klaxxi were created to instill order amongst the Empress, to kill or replace her lest she fall into corruption, as Shek’zeer did. You may judge us – you may call us mantid fools. But make no mistake – those who follow Him willingly are rewarded. Those who follow His whispers, who volunteer eagerly, are a sect that He treasures.”

“And those who are maddened into servitude?” Sabellian growled.

He could have sworn Kil’ruk smiled underneath his mask. “Weak pawns to play their part,” Kil’ruk said.

Sabellian scowled.

“But He insists you will retain your sanity,” Rik’kal exclaimed. “Insists! He promises greatness upon all of us. Empires as vast as they were in ancient times. Brood of black hide that will thunder across both sky and earth!”

“Old Gods make false promises,” Sabellian argued. “And you are a fool to think that what He is saying will transpire. Every word He whispers is a falsehood to trick you into serving Them – you believe it so quickly because you don’t know any better!” His words were a snarl, and he should have reined himself back, but the idiocy of these willing morons was making him angry. Here he was, trying as hard as he possibly could to avoid such whispers from the Old Gods, and there they were, with only stories of Y’shaarj’s greatness and willingly listening to a voice in their heads that promised things that would never occur!

“As I said – we are both ancient races,” Kil’ruk said. “But you are lesser, because you are weak. You do not see sense – but we will make you. When the rest Rise, we mantid will stand beside Y’shaarj as we did before the Usurpers came. This world will sink back into Chaos, and our cycle will come to its end.” The Wind-reaver twitched, and the sudden movement was so abrupt Sabellian wondered if he’d been stabbed in the back, but his oval head snapped to Wrathion. “Because there is no use to Order. Mistakes are made. It slips and falls. That is a truth.”

Wrathion went so pale his skin became the color of dark parchment.

The room went quiet. The storm outside was hardly audible, the angry act of nature now just a hoarse whisper. Y’shaarj Himself might as well have been lurking right beneath their feet, they were so deep beneath the grass and roots and earth.

The thought didn’t exactly calm Sabellian down.

Slowly, Kil’ruk turned to the elder dragon. “We have spoken all there is to speak,” he said. “And you have listened, though argued.” His fragmented arms fell back to tuck up underneath his armored, chitin body. “What is your choice?”

Sabellian glanced around the room. Wrathion had his eyes transfixed on the Wind-reaver; they remained wide and, unabashedly, scared. He found no joy in the whelp’s expression – but did, however, find it curious that the paragon’s comment had effected Wrathion as much as it had.

Sabellian looked away. There was little time to mull over the emotions of the Black Prince.

They had asked Sabellian to make his choice. Fine. That was easy. Sabellian took a slow breath and, in turn, his heart calmed. What did he have to fear, even if he was so deep in the earth? His wounds were great, but his mental state was balanced, and no itch – no itch like there had been on the plain – scratched at his mind.

Sabellian glowered in the mantids’ direction. The fools. Even in the face of facts they still lingered in the dead God’s shadow. The show was pathetic and weak-willed.

With a quick breath he pulled at the fire in his chest and, snarling, hurled a stream of flame from his mouth. It burst before Kil’ruk’s feet, and the paragon gave a startled hiss before bouncing backwards. The fireball smoldered hot against the wet earth before sizzling into thick smoke.

“As I had told Y’shaarj Himself -I would rather you slit my throat than rejoin such madness,” Sabellian growled. “Let you ants die.”

Kil’ruk hissed. One of his hands swept to the polearm that hung along his back, but Xaril raised his hand, stopping him, his slim talons splayed.

“There is one answer,” Xaril said. He looked at Wrathion. “What is yours?”

“I will remain my own mind,” Wrathion answered slowly. The dragon took a deep breath, and the fear left his eyes. Glaring, the Black Prince drew himself up. “Now release me.”

The three paragons said nothing. They looked at one another and held no surprise in their guarded expressions, and Sabellian knew, then, that they had expected their answers.

“I knew this would be difficult,” Xaril said in an annoyed, hushed voice. “I knew this venture would be ill-timed and fall on deaf ears, as it did on the Wakener’s.”

“Sik’vess would not be sacrificed so willingly if not for some reason,” Rik’kal responded. “We cannot allow such a thing to slip so easily.”

“Then kill them,” Xaril argued. “These lesser beings have no place with Him. We know this.”

“He wants them,” Kil’ruk murmured thoughtfully. “We cannot disobey His wishes.”

Sabellian watched them.

“You said that if we listened, you would let us go,” Wrathion complained loudly. He took a step forward, and the mantid behind him hissed warningly, but the Black Prince ignored it. Wrathion’s left hand curled into a loose fist at his side. “I have no interest in being a slave. Release me, at least.”

“Yes. I did say we would let you go,” Kil’ruk responded. He looked away from the other paragons and shrugged, and the movement looked so forced and jerky it was as if the mantid had seen it somewhere and was attempting to mirror the casual movement. “But that was beforehand. I have changed my mind.”

Wrathion looked temporarily alarmed, his eyes widening and his scowl growing. He growled. “You can’t -”

“Yes. I can,” Kil’ruk interrupted with an amused tone, and then flicked out his talons with a cursory movement.

One of the mantid behind Wrathion struck one of its legs out and smashed the Black Prince to the ground with an oomph of flesh on chitin. To Sabellian’s left, the orc snarled and writhed against the mantid that held her, but the soldier was too strong, and did not budge in its grip upon her arms.

Sabellian stayed still. He could not afford to be hurt further – especially this deep in the earth, and this close to an Old God’s servants -… and so he only watched with distant eyes as Wrathion groaned and slid up to his knees, placing one hand on the floor to steady himself.

Kil’ruk, with a deceivingly slow stride, swept over and put his own clawed foot on Wrathion’s back before the boy could stand. Glaring, the Black Prince looked up.

“We have no room for weakness, here,” Kil’ruk said. “Nor disobedience. We have said what we have said to so many outsiders, and our words have fallen on deaf ears. It is a pity to lose such strong warriors to our cause, but it is no surprise. The Usurpers corrupted well.”

“The Titans are not the corrupted ones,” Wrathion spat. His eyes were wild. “The Old Gods -”

“Rise again,” Kil’ruk interrupted smoothly. He slid his leg off of Wrathion, leaned down, and hauled the Black Prince back up to his feet, the dragon’s boots sliding against the dirt.

“We have spoken, and you have not listened. There is one more option we may show you.” Kil’ruk glanced over at Xaril. “ You will prepare the sonar.”

Xaril blinked in surprise. “They will not be able to handle such mental stress. The effects would kill them, or render them thoughtless.”

“You’re an alchemist, aren’t you?” Kil’ruk snapped, and for a moment, Sabellian thought he was talking to him. “How many times have you blabbered about that poison that would steel the Wakener’s mind to our thoughts?”

“It has remained in testing stages,” Xaril murmured, shifting uncomfortably. “Unfortunately the Wakener always declined my offer. I did not understand why… it would have been so useful -”

“Then go and ready it,” Kil’ruk interrupted. The paragon looked agitated, and with a grumble he let go of Wrathion, and the Black Prince growled. “Then they will be able to see what we mean. Then they will see the sense.”

Xaril hesitated a moment more before nodding in agreement. “It would be best,” he mused.

“I could always take a sample of their genes,” Rik’kal gushed. He clasped his claws together excitedly. “The tall one there has fresh blood! Oh, I wonder if I could twist it apart -”

“That will hardly work, Rik’kal,” Xaril scoffed. He puffed himself up, and with his already imposing height, the effect was somewhat alarming. “My alchemy will prove the wiser.”

“You are an alchemist?” Sabellian asked. He no longer could be silent; the curiosity was nagging at him, and, questioningly, he raised a brow at Xaril. “I was not aware creatures like yourself could do such delicate work.”

Xaril turned to stare at him. The mantid’s claws flexed once. “An alchemist,” he repeated. “I was Shek’zeer’s greatest, and remain the greatest. Do not test me.”

“I doubt that you are ‘the greatest,’” Sabellian said. “I would like to see your work compared to mine.”

Xaril’s antennae twitched. Slowly, he walked up to Sabellian, his scaled feet clacking on the floor, and leered down at him; the mantid was at least a foot taller than the dragon, who was tall enough to begin with.

“Amusing,” the mantid stated. He curled his folded appendages closer to his shielded carapace. “Lesser creatures cannot understand such chemistry.”

“How certain are you of that, mantid?”

Xaril flicked his mandibles. One of his eyes twitched. “I do not compare my work to those who are not worthy of it,” the mantid snapped. “But perhaps I will slip a bit of noxious poison into your drink.”

“I believe I’ll be able to tell if you have,” Sabellian countered.

The mantid clacked to himself. “I doubt -”

“Xaril. Enough,” Kil’ruk interrupted with a snap.

The paragon glared down at Sabellian for another moment. Sabellian stared back, amused. The insulted, sprung tension rolled off the mantid’s body.

With a hiss, Xaril finally leaned away. “Do not make an enemy of me,” the paragon said, and, grumbling, moved off to the side to disappear behind the archway and into the tunnel where they had come from.

“Lead them to the holding chambers,” Kil’ruk ordered.

“I am not being led anywhere!” Wrathion argued.

The paragon ignored him, and focused on the other mantid that stood behind Sabellian and the Black Prince. “Go.”

A polearm jostled at Sabellian’s back. The dragon growled. Did he have the energy to shift -?… He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. He was no stronger than he had been before, and even if he was, he was stuck down in the earth with nowhere to go in his large form. He was as cornered as a bear in a trap.

“I am not going anywhere,” Wrathion repeated, and he didn’t move even when one of the mantid tried to pull him back by the collar. “I will not be subject to whatever mayhem you are hoping to achieve with that alchemist’s brew, and I will not join Y’shaarj either way.”

Kil’ruk regarded Wrathion silently. He turned his wide-eyed head to one of the mantid guarding the remaining Blacktalons. “Kill one.”

The soldier did not hesitate. Its amber sword speared through the back of the red-headed elf, and the rogue gave an alarmed, pained splutter as blood hacked from his mouth. With its second set of arms, the mantid lifted a dagger and slit the rogue’s throat, and the Blacktalon jerked before he went limp and fell upon his own pool of blood. The death was quick.

Wrathion did not even flinch, and looked at the rogue without the slightest flicker of emotion.

Kil’ruk chirrred, displeased. “Kill the orc.”

Left scowled. She jerked back, and one of the mantid soldiers went to swipe at her, but Wrathion’s eyes went wide.

“Wait! Wait, stop,” Wrathion yelped desperately, his voice hoarse, and Kil’ruk raised his arm; the mantid soldiers halted.

“Good,” Kil’ruk said. Left looked at Wrathion and narrowed her eyes, shaking her head so subtly that Sabellian thought that he’d imagined the movement, but when Wrathion grit his teeth and looked away from her, he knew he had seen right. “Such violence is needed to make the weak kneel.”

Wrathion scowled. He turned wildly to Sabellian. “Do something!”

“What, exactly, would you like me to do?”

“Kill them!”

“Do you honestly think -”

“Rik’kal, bind their hands,” Kil’ruk grumbled. The paragon watched the dragons with his armed crossed and with an open, exasperated expression.

“With pleasure,” Rik’kal purred, and swept forward. He went to Sabellian, first, and rose one of his tucked-in appendages; the amber that Sabellian had seen the mantid holding in the main chamber was still clasped in his talons.

The mantid snatched the dragon’s hands with blurred speed and tore them out in front of him, and Sabellian snarled as his twisted wrist was pulled – but before he had time to react, Rik’kal had swept the block of amber over both of his wrists, and a warm glow emanated from the sticky rock.

The glow intensified, and within a heartbeat, it became molten liquid in the mantid’s claws. Rik’kal chattered, and, like some obedient snake, the liquified amber drooped down to loop quickly about Sabellian’s wrists and solidify a moment later.

Cuffs. Sabellian growled and pulled his arms from one another in an attempt to simply break the brittle-looking material, but instead was met with such strong resistance that the unexpected force rebounded with a shocked pain up Sabellian’s shoulder and consequently sent his harpoon wound there to seize, and he nearly snarled from the blinding pain that swept up the left side of his body.

He took a breath and forced his agony under control, and closed his eyes when the pain did not decrease. He heard Rik’kal move away.

When the pain beat down to its usual stinging, Sabellian opened his eyes with a new, fresh scowl, and glanced to his side. Rik’kal was making the cuffs on Wrathion as Sabellian watched, and the younger dragon was standing surprisingly still - no doubt because of the orc.

Sabellian did not watch for long before realizing the pressure at his own cuffs were different – even tighter than they had been when first applied. He glanced down as Rik’kal pulled away from Wrathion, who bore new golden cuffs of his own, and saw that the amber links had actually slithered closer because of his movement.

Sabellian’s scowl deepened. The amber responded to struggle.

How annoying.

“Lead them,” Kil’ruk ordered. “Guard until Xaril returns – and leave these bargaining pieces in the room.”

This time Wrathion did not resist the mantid. Head bowed, eyes glaring, he turned as the soldiers goaded him out into the tunnel again, and Sabellian had no choice but to follow, too weak to do little else.

Left and the others stayed behind.

The mantid led them back to the fork; this time, they took the path to the far right, and it was as dark as the last.

They walked for a long time - how long, Sabellian couldn’t say, only that with each step took them farther away from the entrance, and it felt as if the earth was closing around him once again. Sabellian curled his fingers and tried to focus on something else. Nothing came to mind save to focus his energy on glaring at Wrathion’s back.

Wrathion must have realized Sabellian was staring at him, because he glanced back behind his shoulder with his own glare.

“Coward,” Wrathion hissed, and Sabellian growled.

“Quiet,” the mantid leading them snapped. The creature stopped walking, and for a moment Sabellian thought it was going to try and whirl around and hit one of them, but the mantid simply raised its clawed hand out in front of his body, and the dragon realized they had gotten to the end of the tunnel.

The flat mound of rock at the end crumbled and shifted at the mantid’s chittering – and like the first door, the earth pulled away with vines, and the wings embedded in its depths swung up. It led into a very small chamber whose only source of light was the large chunks of amber embedded into the wall.

“Go,” the mantid said.

Wrathion stared at the room. “I’d rather -”

The mantid soldier behind him shoved him in, and Wrathion gave an alarmed squawk as he stumbled inside.

Sabellian did not want to be shoved – especially with his wounds. He gave a warning scowl to one of the mantid who started to approach him, and he went in the room on his own accord.

The ceiling in the small room was high, at least ten feet up, but with the small circumference of the entire chamber, it felt like they were standing in a slim cylinder.

“Wait,” the mantid said.

The doors closed, and they were in darkness.

—-

Feraku tackled forth from the left, and another nether-drake from her right - their weapons rose, one a silver staff, another, a blue axe, and Samia grinned.

She ducked as a whistling of nether energy burst out of the red end of Feraku’s spear and sailed harmlessly overhead, then whirled as the second attack came from the axe; the nether-drake, an obsidian in his human form, grunted as he swept his large weapon forward in a vicious swing.

But Samia’s dodge had been too quick. She skipped backwards, the grass scuffing beneath the black leather soles of her boots, and kicked out at Feraku with a side kick. It collided into the other dragon’s ribs with a muffled oomph and sent him sprawling off into the dirt.

“Don’t try it, Ozaku,” Samia warned as she turned to face the other nether-drake. She rose her thin black sword to his neck just as he began to try a feint at her side; he stopped and grimaced, then, slowly, lowered his axe with a small shake of his thick-set shoulders.

“You’re good,” he mumbled, and Samia only smiled and withdrew the point of her sword from his neck. Ozaku rubbed at where the tip had poked him and frowned.

“You two aren’t too bad,” Samia said, and turned to watch Feraku, muttering to himself, shuffle up from the dirt clumsily. He brushed off the grass from his white-trimmed, azure robe with his free hand upon getting to his feet. “I think the weapons suit you nicely.”

Feraku shrugged. He plucked off a remaining blade of grass from his chest and tossed it to the side.

Behind him, the others sparred in the limited open spaces of the abandoned Cenarion Expedition’s outpost - Pyria was with three other nether-drakes, and her grin was wide and toothy as she jumped over one of them and whirred around to snap the unfortunate drake back in a headlock. Vaxian, meanwhile, was taking on five at one time with his greatsword, and the remaining nether-drakes, only two, were still choosing appropriate weapons from the near-empty cabinet.

“How long do we have to spar, exactly?” Feraku asked. He looked at her plainly, though Samia noted the small squinting of his eyes – upset that he lost, she imagined.

“Not for too long – like I said, just enough to get used to the weapons and for us to see what you’re capable of.”

Ozaku was staring at Vaxian. His axe hung limp at his side, and swung idly. Dirt stained the top crook of his sharp cheekbones. “He’s good, too,” the nether-drake murmured. “I’m not surprised, though. Learn by yourself?”

“What? Oh, no,” Samia said, and, not dropping her smile, continued, “my mother taught most of us on Azeroth. I taught the rest of my siblings after she died… or at least, the ones who wanted to learn about physical fighting. My father is more of the… magician.”

“Oh – sorry,” Ozaku murmured. Discomfort crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “I didn’t mean to bring that up -”

“Don’t be, ” Samia interrupted a bit more tersely than she had intended. She shrugged and sheathed her sword with a metal shrrrrring into the new holder that hung at her belt before she turned to watch the other fighters.

Feraku was still nitpicking at his robe though no dirt remained. It was starting to annoy her.

Turning, Samia watched the others fight with a shake of her head, trying not to let something so little bother her. Picking the weapons from the cabinet had gone quicker than she had thought – and she was glad for it. She’d asked the others to spar so that one, she could make sure she was not taking incompetent fools on this mission who had no idea how to fight in their human form, compromised in their appearance or not, and two, so that she could see their strengths and weaknesses. If she was going to lead them, she needed to know what their skills were.

Fighting Ozaku and Feraku had been enlightening, at least. Feraku was clumsy with the staff, but his skills in nether-energy were powerful and practiced – but his downfall was his finicky nature. He paused too much to think before an attack, and it would get him killed.

Ozaku, however, was nearly his brother’s foil - his attacks were thoughtless but strong, and though the axe might have been too large for him, he was like an ox. His fighting style vaguely reminded Samia of an unpracticed Vaxian. Her brother was one of the most physically powerful that remained in the brood, but his strikes were always patient. Samia watched him now dodge one of the nether-drakes in an almost neat slowness, and his attacker fell without even nicking him.

Samia looked away. The nether-drakes did seem to host a variety of skills, as she’d asked Neltharaku. Good. There were nether-drakes with slippery agility, and nether-drakes who, like Ozaku, could take a hit without flinching. The magic users, too, were plentiful; nether-energy continually streaked through with a whistle up into the canopy in a shower of sparks.

Samia watched a moment more. She’d seen what she had to - it was time to get on with this venture.

“Alright, that’s enough!” Samia yelled, and her voice carried over the once-silent settlement now alive with the clacks and clangs of metal and wood bashing against one another – though the cacophony died lingeringly as Samia shouted, and the majority lowered their weapons to look at her. She noted two nether-drakes going to continue their sparring. “You two, stop,” she snapped, and they looked at her sheepishly.

Satisfied, Samia turned her attention to the full of the crowd. “Okay. Good. I think we’re ready. Agreed?” Samia shouted, though it was not a question and more of a statement.

“But we just chose our weapons,” one of the nether-drakes complained, and Samia glanced over at the two drakes who were pulling back from the cabinet with a mace and a sword.

“Well – sorry. We’re running short on time as is,” Samia said, and the two nether-drakes went to turn to one another and begin blaming the other with hushed voices for their slowness.

Samia sighed. She looked back at the group and the ends of her fingers tingled; Samia wasn’t sure if it was from excitement or from nerves. She crossed her arms, realized the movement was unnecessary, and, awkwardly uncrossing them again, stretched out and shifted with a roll of smoke into her dragon form, the sun shafts lilting through the open cuts in the canopy above glinting bright across her smooth black scales.

She gave no order; it was bothersome to shout at them all “go,” “jump,” “shift” like they were some sort of trained dogs. Samia simply lifted her wings and jumped through the canopy with a whoosh, and the swishing and crackling of her battalion’s wings followed her a heartbeat later.

They made their way back to the brood-lair. Even from afar, Samia spotted the rest of her siblings mingling outside; most paced back and forth, tails dragging. Others sat next to the nether-drakes that had been assigned to stay behind, and the large, misty form of Neltharaku stood with his head bent to the side, his wings semi-outstretched.

Something possessive twinged at Samia’s throat at the sight of all of the nether-drakes near the lair. She growled and swallowed it as they came up upon the cave .

The dragons milling nearby trotted out of the way as the group landed, their wings shuffling and their claws scratching dry upon the stone ground. A warm gust of wind blew across Samia’s fins.

“Back already?” Ylaria called out. She was sitting in front of three of the younger black drakes and two nether-drakes – the group that had been assigned to prey duty. Samia was surprised she hadn’t left yet.

“We’re trying to be quick about it,” Samia said. “Has anyone seen Rexxar?”

“Oh. He left – had to grab supplies,” Thalarian chirped up from the side. He was laying down, and half of the hatchlings were sitting on him, taking turns jumping from the top of his wings after attempting to balance for the longest time on their two feet.

Samia nodded. “Once he comes back, we’ll be leaving,” she announced, loud enough where everyone could hear. “Now is the time to say goodbyes.”

There was no hesitation: the nether-drakes in her party began to slink away to rejoin their other relatives that would be staying behind.

Samia watched them for a moment, then, taking a deep breath, turned to where her own brood was and walked over. Vaxian and Pyria trailed behind her.

“Competent, I hope,” Ylaria quipped, nodding her head to the nether-drakes who had separated themselves from the party. Samia nodded.

“They’ll do well,” she murmured.

“The brood will be protected,” Ylaria said. Her voice was strained. “I will die before any harm comes to them.”

Samia looked at her younger sister, and Ylaria shifted. The fins on the back of the drake’s neck were flat.

“Don’t be foolish enough to die,” Ylaria said.

“I think I’ll be alright,” Samia responded. Ylaria stared at her another moment then jerked her neck out with a quick snap and brushed her snout against Samia’s affectionately, and Samia nudged and nuzzled back before Ylaria pulled away and bowed her head.

Samia looked over at a gentle poke in her shoulder. Thalarian stood at her side and nudged her shoulder again with his snout, and Samia returned the gesture.

The hatchlings that had been playing atop Thalarian skittered in front of the elder dragon. They peeped excitedly.

“You’re going to find Father now?” Asked Lorian, a small whelp who might as well have been the runt of the two-year clutch. Samia nodded and sank down to her belly, and the hatchlings instantly crawled on top of her stretched forearms.

“Yes,” Samia said. Her other brothers and sisters – Nathrian, Detharia, Kytharian, Obsidia, Lihixian, and all the rest, large in numbers, perhaps, to an outsider, but a meager attempt at a usual brood – gathered around Samia, Pyria, and Vaxian as well. Most had grim looks on their faces. Unlike the hatchlings, they knew there was a possibility that Samia and the others might not be coming back, or Father was not coming back.

“I wish I could come,” Alacian complained. “I could fight them for you. The Black Prince. I could pop his eye out! I could do it.”

Samia smiled. She nuzzled him. “I’m sure you could,” she said. “But I think the brood might need your ferocity here, more.”

Alacian smiled at her, but, different from the other hatchlings, his expression was wobbly, strained. Maybe he knew what the older drakes knew, too; he was always very acute.

“You’re gonna’ be okay, right?” Alacian asked. He lowered his voice. “And Father is going to come home, isn’t he?”

Samia hesitated before she nodded. “We will all be fine,” she assured quietly. “I promise.”

Alacian stared at her. He quivered, once, then nudged at her snout.

Sighing, Samia looked up, but did not rise to her feet, as her other siblings came over to her. They slipped their heads against hers in affectionate nudges, cat-like, before they pulled away to do the same to Vaxian and Pyria.

It felt like she was being blessed. Samia had heard of the spells mortals gave one another to protect themselves, to strengthen them. With each goodbye, Samia could feel love and strength and a hope for protection from each of her brothers and sisters until she felt untouchable, and the ground hummed beneath her.

The Blessing of the Black Dragonflight was with them. Samia curled her claws and nuzzled the hatchlings again. She would not fail. She could not fail. She would protect them.

Her family was everything.

A twinkling of what sounded like glass caught her attention. Samia lifted her head, nostrils flared, to look out at the source of the sound – and saw a large wyvern trotting down the valley.

The beast was the size of a small drake, and its fur a light tan like the lynx’s. Two large curved horns jotted from its brow to curl backwards above its thickly maned neck, and a scorpion-like tail, barbed with a brown-red stinger at the end, swayed back and forth behind it. Its great bat wings sprouted out from the back of its lion arms and connected to its side, and the mount was adorned with feathers of all colors – red, yellow, white – and rock beads that jingled when it shook its head. Walking beside it was Misha, and the great bear nudged its snout, and the wyvern wrinkled its ring-pierced nose.

Rexxar sat atop the beast on a simple leather saddle. A white hawk – the same one that had circled the battle beforehand – perched on his shoulder; Samia recalled its name was Spirit.

“I’m sorry for my lateness,” he said gruffly, and pulled back on the leather reins. “Leokk was being difficult.”

“No apology needed,” Samia responded. She turned back to Alacian and with an affectionate nudge, moved him and the rest of the cheeping hatchlings from her paws before she stood. “I trust you’re ready.”

“Yes,” the half-orc affirmed.

Samia glanced at Misha.

“And your bear will be accompanying you?”

Rexxar saw her question. “She will not fly with us,” he explained. “She will follow.”

“We’re flying across an entire sea.”

“Yes.”

Samia squinted. She looked at Misha, who looked back at her almost challengingly, before she focused on Rexxar again. “Alright,” the dragon said, slowly, unsure what to think, then turned to face the rest of the dragons.

“We’re leaving,” she announced. “Get in your last word.”

The nether-drakes nudged one another. They were silent about it, subdued, and were quick to trail back to Samia, the pulsing of the lightning around their bodies a bit slower and morose in its flashes. There was no excitement - if anything, the only thing Samia saw was a sense of duty and a grimness in the mutated dragons’ expressions that made her wonder if she had judged them too harshly for their previous lack of action.

Vaxian bowed his head to the black brood; Pyria tried to nuzzle every dragon’s snout again as quickly as she possibly could, which earned some strained smiles from some of the dragons.

Samia swallowed hard. She bent her head and nudged the hatchlings’ heads.

“Be good,” she murmured. “We will be back home with Father soon.”

Samia rose her head. Some of the hatchlings began to whimper, but she didn’t have time to calm them. She looked at her other siblings and nodded.

It was time to go.

Samia unfurled her wings. The red webbing was bright against the dull tan stone of Blade’s Edge Mountains, and the same color as the crimson nether-sky above, as bright and as bloody as any flame.

Samia lifted on her back feet, lifted her head and roared, and fire burst from her mouth in a scream of its own, so hot that it appeared more green than red - and her brothers and sisters answered with their own thunderous cries that the valley shook with their roars and the very earth trembled beneath them.

Her roar ended. Smoke curled from her closed maw. Samia snorted, beat her wings and lifted with a whistling scream into the sky, the others trailing behind her.

She turned, and, after one last glance at the brood below, began to the southeast to the Dark Portal.

—-

Sabellian was not sure how long they had been in darkness, but it had felt like hours.

It was quiet, though the silence was nearly as loud as any noise – he could feel it vibrating in his inner ear, though perhaps it was simply the rushing of his own blood in his head. Gentle creaks, long, drawn-out, and muted, groaned muffled around them every minute or so as if they were inside a moving ship, and Sabellian could not discern any buzzing from the mantid that stood guard beyond the small archway that had closed off behind them.

“He’s like their Empress.”

Sabellian glanced up. Wrathion was leaning back against the amber-and-earth wall, sitting as Sabellian did, though the whelp’s shoulders were slouched. He watched Sabellian from his dark corner, and in the blackness, his eyes, the two pinpoints of red, glowered silently, cat-like in their appearance and glow. It was about the only thing Sabellian could make out of the Black Prince, save for some parts of his body that the amber touched upon, and his red eyes illuminated only some parts of Wrathion’s face.

“What?”

Wrathion grinned suddenly. Sabellian stared. The whelp had said nothing for however long they had been in this hole-in-the-wall, and half only sulked quietly in his corner – but not he looked like a child upon receiving his favorite candy, and the difference in mood caught Sabellian off guard… though the dragon was beginning to realize that such a thing was customary when dealing with this odd little dragon. “I only just realized! Y’shaarj. He’s like their Empress.”

“You seem very enthused about this.”

“No, no, you don’t understand. Their Empress speaks directly to them. She controls them – well, except for the Klaxxi.” His grin slipped down into a sudden, confused frown before he shrugged. “It’s fascinating! I knew the mantid once follow Y’shaarj, of course, but I had no idea He operated like the Empress in regards to the mantid. I wonder if their Empress was a replacement when Y’shaarj fell?”

Sabellian frowned at Wrathion. Why was the whelp blabbering on about this? What did it matter about the link between the Empress and Y’shaarj?

“You say that like it’s a good thing, little prince.”

“Well-… well, no, it isn’t, really.” Wrathion frowned again. “Though He is, by all accounts, dead. Of course. This is so absurd.”

“They don’t think He’s dead, do they?” Sabellian mused. He saw an unreadable expression shift at the corners of Wrathion’s eyes. “I am unsure if those Gods can truly die.”

“Y-…yyyyes,” Wrathion said, drawing out the word slowly, hesitantly, like he was unsure he wanted to admit it. He went quiet again.

“And?” Sabellian goaded.

Wrathion blinked. “And what?”

“What does that matter?”

Wrathion hesitated. “I suppose it doesn’t,” the Black Prince murmured. His sudden excitement deflated, and he slouched back into the wall. “I only think it intriguing – but I suppose I shouldn’t have shared with someone who lacks the intellect to -”

“Shut up, whelp,” Sabellian growled, and leaned his head back against the wall.

Wrathion glared, offended, but said nothing.

They went silent again. The croaks and groans of the earth around them remained the only sound in the dark room, and Sabellian cast his eyes upward at the high, gnarled ceiling. He needed to find something to distract him from the ground, but in this little place, there was little else to do but stare.

It might have been ten minutes, half an hour, or two hours when Wrathion spoke again - time was moving both so quickly and so slowly that Sabellian couldn’t be sure.

“Shouldn’t you be trying to – oh, I don’t know, shift into your actual dragon form and get us out of here?”

“I would if I had the strength,” Sabellian grumbled. “But if I recall, some fool decided to ignore my plea for healing, and now I have little energy to even transform.”

“Oh, please,” Wrathion said, and pulled himself up straighter from his clumsy lean against the wall, though flinched when the amber bindings tightened against his wrists in a sticky creaking. “You wouldn’t have healed me, either. Don’t be hypocritical. Didn’t you say how you loathed hypocrites to King Varian Wrynn?”

Sabellian ground his teeth. Even tied up in the pit of some demonic energized tree, surrounded by bugs, Wrathion still had enough energy to whine and argue. It would have been an amazing feat if every word that came out of the whelp’s mouth didn’t aggravate Sabellian, who felt the very strong need to simply punch the Prince in the throat to make him stop talking, lest anything more idiotic yap out from his mouth.

“And,” Wrathion continued while he tilted his head and leaned forward in an offensive, goading position, his face more visible as he leaned closer into the brighter part of the room where the amber glowed stronger, “how was I supposed to know that the mantid were going to invite us to their Old-God-worshiping extravaganza?”

“I was under the impression that you inherently knew everything, past, present, and future,” Sabellian replied, voice flat. “But you don’t? Oh, the surprise is riveting.”

Wrathion deepened his red glare. He leaned back into his corner with a huff, and most of his face’s features disappeared again from the shadows, save for his glowing eyes.

“Very funny,” the Black Prince mumbled, and Sabellian only shook his head. “But -” Oh, please, Sabellian thought, when was he going to shut up? “- Either way, it would have been foolish of me to actually heal you. Honestly. What idiot in their right mind would do that to a prisoner of power?”

“Perhaps if the prisoner had politely requested it as I did,” Sabellian said, “and with intentions that were not for his own benefit, but even for yours.”

Wrathion rolled his eyes. “You giving into the whispers because of your pain is only a bonus for me; I won’t have to think twice when I have you killed.” He smiled a charming smile, and Sabellian squinted at him. Interesting. The whelp had realized why Sabellian had wanted healing. Sabellian wondered when he’d understood was much.

Maybe Wrathion was a twinge smarter than Sabellian had assumed -… that, or it had been a lucky guess.

“Implying that you had to ‘think twice’ beforehand,” Sabellian pointed out. Wrathion dropped his smile. “You could have killed me when I fell from the chains, little prince, and yet here I am, very much alive. Do I interest you? Your previous hesitation was amusing.”

“No,” Wrathion spat defensively. “I was only going to question you about certain things, but now that you -”

“What ‘things’ warrant my life?” Sabellian interrupted. “All I see is an excuse.”

Wrathion widened his eyes, affronted, before his brows tilted in a glare and his gaze scrunched up angrily. “Do you realize where you live? Outland is absolutely teeming with information about the Burning Legion, and you surely know a great deal about the demons – I might as well soak up every bit of research I can find from any source. And, of course -” Wrathion lit up with a sly smile. “- Why should I kill you so quickly? You drew out my torture. It’s only right I drew out yours.”

Sabellian squinted.

The Burning Legion? What did they have to do with anything? He regarded the whelp quietly, caught off guard by their sudden introduction. The dragon tried to think about other times Wrathion had mentioned the chaotic force, and came up blank.

How odd. He squinted at the whelp again, and Wrathion frowned at him in confusion. Now that he thought about it, maybe he had heard something about the demons – but not from Wrathion. Maybe one of the Black Prince’s champions had mentioned it off-handedly, just like they’d mentioned the Vale’s waters, which had been wildly beneficial.

Not like that venture had amounted to much thanks to Alexstrasza, Sabellian thought bitterly.

“I know about the demons,” Sabellian started. “Most on Outland do. Why do they interest you?”

Wrathion looked pleased that Sabellian had asked judging by the lit look in his eyes, even if he lacked a smile. He drew himself up, though just enough so the amber bonds did not move. “When the Burning Legion comes, I would like to be amply prepared for their arrival,” Wrathion explained. “- And their dismissal.” His eager look fell abruptly, like someone had taken their hand and forcibly smeared it from his face, and he gave a sour frown. “Which only makes your… interruption as untimely as it is aggravating. I had everything planned, and you cropping up ruins everything! Now I have to -”

“Their dismissal,” Sabellian interrupted, ignoring the latter half of Wrathion’s whining. He raised a brow at the Prince in disbelief. “And you believe they will go as quickly as they arrive?”

“Well - yes,” Wrathion said. “Once I unify the mortals under one great banner, I’ll make them.”

“You.”

“Me! -… And the mortals, of course, when I force them to get along.”

Sabellian hesitated – then he laughed, a quick, loud scoff that made Wrathion jump.

“I am sure Sargeras is quaking in his cloven hooves at the thought of facing you, prince,” the dragon chuckled. The glare Wrathion gave him was positively poisonous.

“I will protect Azeroth,” Wrathion growled. “Laugh all you like, Sabellian, but when the time comes, I will be the one to lead forth the new world and cast the Legion aside.”

Sabellian nearly laughed again. The whelp was serious – oh, and he looked so offended. For someone who thought himself so untouchable and mighty, Wrathion had many weak and sensitive points to twist and poke at, Sabellian thought.

It was too easy to take advantage of. He remembered Wrathion’s previous mask, before they had entered Sik’vess, and decided this was another change to break the whelp again.

“A practiced speech – as always,” the elder dragon mused. He was smiling an amused smile, his teeth sharp against his lips. It slid from his face a moment after. “But you cannot push the Legion back, and you’re a fool to think that you can.”

“Yes, well, it’s easy for you to say that without knowing my plans, isn’t it?” Wrathion snapped.

“That may be,” Sabellian agreed, though his amusement stayed in the tilt of his eyes. “But with your current record of planning, I would say those plans will fail like the rest of them.”

“Wh – the rest of them!”

“You believed to have killed the rest of your kin, only to find my family. You used the Alliance to take me down, yet I am alive. You ignore the advice of the ‘Shado-pan,’ and now we are unsaid prisoners of a race who follows the very God trying to corrupt us both.” Sabellian stared at Wrathion unkindly. “You always seem to come very close, but you always find yourself failing – an acute observation of mine I’ve acquired of you. So, Black Prince – how close will you come to ‘saving’ Azeroth before you fall, too?”

Wrathion snarled; his eyes blazed. “Shut up,” the younger dragon scowled, and smoke drifted from between the open cracks of his pointed teeth in quick puffs. “I will not fail – not against the Legion. Nothing will stop me from pushing them back!” Wrathion puffed up his chest, akin to a bird fluffing its feathers to look larger. “And might I remind you, Sabellian, that your own plans have failed numerous times? Dear Anduin Wrynn foiled you first, then Alexstrasza, then myself and the Alliance.” He huffed and deflated slightly. “Don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing -”

A loud, creaking groan whined from their left. Sabellian glanced over, and he saw Wrathion do the same; the earthen wall that had closed them off was sliding backwards, the vines curling away from the thick clot of dirt and the small, webbed wings, the inner wall, shuddering upwards to open through into the archway.

A black-armored mantid stood in the new opening and the glow of the richer amber nestled in the walls of the hallway illuminated its hard, smooth carapace from behind it. Its antennae and mandible flickered back in aggravation.

“There is too much noise,” the mantid clacked. It pointed the tip of its polearm in Wrathion’s direction. “You – silence. And you -” The polearm pointed to Sabellian. “Silence. Wind-reaver has granted you temporary immunity, but that will not stop my from taking out your tongues.”

Sabellian scoffed. The mantid hissed.

“I will give you no more warnings,” it snapped.

“While you’re here,” Wrathion quipped, raising his voice which no longer contained the vicious burst of anger inherit in it earlier, “when will we be released -?”

The mantid grumbled to itself in the chattering language, turned about and flicked a talon-ended hand towards the opening; the webbed wings fell, the vines sluiced forth from the walls, and the dirt and roots grumbled to a close – and they were in darkness again.

“A good effort,” Sabellian said. Wrathion looked at him again and glowered.

“I’m not speaking to you,” the Black Prince hissed, then slumped deep into his corner and glared quietly from the darkness.

Sabellian said nothing, only raised a brow at Wrathion in silence. When it seemed evident that Wrathion actually intended to stop talking, the elder dragon leaned back fully into the wall, grimaced at the small shift near his wounds, and went back to studying the room; there had to be some weakness he could find in this hole without using too much of his energy.

But everywhere he looked, the only creases inherit in the walls were gentle dents of earth, hardly a foot deep, and the amber that poked through with its quiet glow looked too hard to break with his limited strength and tied hands – and Sabellian had guessed that the wall only opened and closed by the will of the mantid, so there was no hope for that.

Sabellian exhaled hard. He stopped looking around; it served little use, and plus, everywhere he cast his eyes, he could see the little brat continuing to glower at him from the corner of his vision with those two pinpoints of glaring red.

\- So Sabellian looked down at his bonds, instead. Having the whelp stare at him was going to aggravate him further, and he didn’t want to give into any other feelings of hatred, no matter how tantalizing they were. What had happened on the plains would not happen again, he assured himself – though the echoing voice of Y’shaarj goading his anger was a sharp memory in the back of his mind.

He gave a quick check of his mental defenses, found them surprisingly stable, and studied his amber bonds.

No, Sabellian dared not move them. After what had happened before, it would only be a fool’s errand. Annoyed, he eyed the murky bulk of amber, yet even in this cruder lock contained no conceivable weaker breaks, nor bubbles that might have proved an easier place to snap them.

Now this was becoming aggravating. Sabellian scoffed quietly to himself.

Waiting it out was the only option – and waiting for what, exactly? He knew little of how the mantid worked; if he was honest with himself, the entire conversation in the Old God’s hall had confused him. He had little idea of their cycle, their speakers…

He mulled over what Wrathion had said of the Empress and Y’shaarj. The Empress spoke in their minds like the Old God – perhaps it did have to do with something. He glanced at Wrathion and saw that the whelp had closed his eyes.

Sabellian, at least, knew what sonar was. Did the mantid intend for them to listen, to see, what they did?

The thought was not pleasant. He shook his head and sighed a growling sigh. If only he was without his injuries -…

But he wasn’t, and he was weak. The thought aggravated him, and his fingers curled. If only the idiot had healed him, they would not be in this fiasco – or at least, Sabellian himself wouldn’t be.

He growled again. Now, all he could do was wait – and he dared not sleep -

Not this deep in the earth where it was easier for Y’shaarj to find him.

So he waited.

—-

When Anduin awoke, he recalled little dreams.

He stretched his good arm forward, fingers reaching with a slight shake, and yawned; his eyes remained scrunched closed. He slunk his stretched arm down to the puffed bed where the soft blanket sank underneath it.

Light, he was still so tired, and every bit of him hurt.

Anduin sighed out hard. He turned his head and buried it face down into his pillow, his breath warming the silk cloth.

His burned back felt taut and pricked with a gentle heat; his cut arm beat with a regular pain, and his injured leg joined in with its dulled ache that, this morning, began at the tip of his right hip and ended to rest simmering above his ankle.

Anduin concluded he was not feeling that great.

The prince mumbled a brief, incoherent slur of silent grumblings before he lifted his head from the pillow and turned to his side again. He slit one eye open.

It was bright in the room. The light that streamed in through the window to his right was a gentle yellow and pink; Anduin squinted at it suspiciously. Were his eyes just hazy with sleep, or did it seem too… bright for it to be early morning?

He sat up; the mattress squeaked and his aching back protested as the tight skin pulled. Ignoring it, Anduin looked out at the window with a befuddled, tired frown, with sleep crusted at his eyes and his blond hair wild and his bangs stuck to his forehead.

There was a red curtain, fringed with gold, that hid most of the clear window – but through the open crack in the middle, Anduin could see that it was no dawn red or yellow outside; it must have been nearly noon with how high the sun was.

Anduin jolted up. He’d slept in and no one had thought to wake him up earlier!

Bed creaking and covers rustling wildly, the prince nearly leaped from the mattress in a surprisingly quick flurry. He snatched his clothes, which hung limp at the side of the bed, and pulled them on with less delicacy and grace than he had last night, and the effect caused him more than once to flinch and wince as his injured body moved too quickly as he slipped on his tunic, his tabard, his sash, and then finally his boots. His clothes smelled like charcoal and dirt, but that would have to be dealt with, later.

Why had no one woken him up, he wondered, as he snatched his makeshift cane from its lean against the mattress and snatched up the lucky articles, including Wrathion’s gem, into his pocket. He usually woke fine on his own around dawn, but apparently his body had decided to try and catch up on sleep, and Anduin wasn’t sure if he should be aggravated at himself for the lack of responsibility or somewhat grateful he’d caught up, a bit.

Probably both, he grumbled. He swept a hand through his hair, though it did little to hide its splayed wildness, and with the pale circles rung out underneath his eyes, Anduin Wrynn looked like a wreck.

He hoped he hadn’t missed anything; he’d wanted to get up early to see just how destroyed the Vale was, and no doubt his father was interested in holding meetings about the Alliance’s next move as early as possible.

Which would have been near early morning. Which Anduin had slept through. He sighed and, every bit of him aching and every bit of him wholly exhausted, opened the door.

The two guards who had accompanied him last night remained standing at the sides of his door; both looked over in practiced unison as the prince emerged.

“Good morning, Prince Anduin,” the one on the left said, a male human whose features were hidden behind his iron slotted helmet.

“Good morning,” Anduin said while withholding an ill-timed yawn that suckered up his chest and gave him a brief wide-eyed expression. He sighed. “Why wasn’t I woken up?” Without waiting for an answer, he moved through the doorway and closed it behind him with a quiet rap.

“King Varian requested that you sleep in, Prince,” responded the other guard, the woman with blond bangs peeking out from underneath the slots against her face.

Anduin locked his jaw. Of course. He took a deep breath; he wasn’t mad at his father, per say – he knew Varian meant well, as always – but he was annoyed all the same.

“Alright. Thank you,” Anduin murmured, though no thanks were really necessary. He moved out of the way of the guards and began down the hallway as briskly as he possibly could with all of his aching injuries, which jolted with every step he took, though he only allowed a small frown to show his pain.

The red cloud serpent carved into the walls with ruby blocks stared down at him with a wink of an azure jewel for its eye; his guards clanked behind him. In bright opposition to last night, already Anduin could hear the Shrine of Seven Stars’ vibrant activity. Rounding the stairs and cautiously making his way down them, the smells of the cooks at work downstairs wafted upwards; grilled mushan, stewed carrots and onions, cream-filled pastries. His mouth watered, but he swallowed. He could have time to eat later; he needed to figure out what was going on.

And he needed to see the Vale immediately.

Anduin made it to the second floor. He glanced over at where he’d spoken to Madam Goya last night, and, somewhat in thanks, saw that the crafty old pandaren and her monstrously sized bodyguard no longer remained along the balcony; in their stead was a host of pandaren and Alliance alike eating at the tables and listening to whistling music performed by a female pandaren with a small lute-like instrument.

Their expressions looked happy – but strained. Some of the Alliance didn’t smile, and others had grim expressions tugging down at their otherwise-grinning faces as they ate and listened to one another.

Anduin bit his lip. It must have been because of the Horde in the Vale, or even the causalities that had taken place at the fierce battle at Lion’s Landing.

Maybe he should say something -… he sighed and shook his head before he turned into the portal room to his left. Any words he could say would be uninformed… he didn’t know about the Vale, and he couldn’t talk to his people so frankly without knowing the specifics.

The portal room was, oddly enough, not as bustling as it usually was - the open portals to all of the Alliance’s capitols lay swirling across the left, unattended, and the portals to Dalaran and Shattrath lay to his right. The golden and grey stone serpent statue, one hand clasped onto a globe, stared down at him with a snarled mouth. Behind him, Anduin could hear the commotion downstairs of all of the woken Alliance going about their business: iron hammers with the blacksmiths clanged, food sizzled, murmurs of price negotiations became outright arguments.

Anduin frowned.

“Do you know if my father was planning on hosting a meeting?” He asked the guards, and glanced behind his shoulder to look at them.

The woman hesitated before she shrugged. “We’d heard that Taran Zhu had come this morning to speak with the King,” she said.

Anduin stared. Taran Zhu? He’d missed Taran Zhu? He bit the inside of his cheek. Maybe he was still here.

Anduin knew from experience that Varian often keep councils on the second floor - if it was not in the portal room, then it had to be somewhere deeper in the Shrine where the majority of the Alliance couldn’t sneak in on such private affairs of their leaders.

The prince started forward again and went up the tiny, three-step stairs that led into the back rooms of the Shrine. The ethereals were often here offering strange services – and they were here today. The one nearest to him was leaning against the wall, its white wraps glowing about its ghost-like, wispy body, and fiddled with a small golden ring that burst with sparks as the being swept its hand over the surface. It glanced up when Anduin came inside the hallway.

Anduin smiled at it. He’d never actually spoken to them before, and if he was honest to himself, he was never really sure how to speak to them. They had no expressions on their faces save for the wraps, and it was hard to realize if they could be spoken to or if they wanted to be left alone because of it.

“Good morning,” the prince started. “Have you seen my father?”

The ethereal’s body made a warped sound that sounded like a high-pitched wind in a tunnel. “Yes,” it said in its heavily accented voice, a voice like sugar and cream but with an undertone of amusement that Anduin wasn’t sure was malicious or innocent. It raised its free hand and pointed to the archway to their left, leading into the smaller chambers of the Shrine. One of its wraps unraveled from its gusting, pulsing energy that was its arm, but the ethereal didn’t seem to mind or even react. “That way, Prince. And what a group it was,” it added with an amused chuckle that resembled wind rustling through leaves. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” Anduin murmured. He wasn’t sure what to make of the ethereal’s comment - had it been a diverse group? Perhaps the other Alliance leaders were here.

And he wasn’t there. Anduin tried to swallow the feeling of the petulant prince that swelled at his throat, but it worked little, even when he tried to tell himself that his father had only been worried for his health by allowing Anduin to sleep late.

The prince slipped into the archway the ethereal had pointed to. It was a slim hallway, so slim that his two guards had to file in single line behind him, for the two side by side could not fit through. The hustle and bustle of the Shrine began to fade as Anduin walked through the lonely hallway, his cane and his guards behind him loud in the sudden quiet. He glanced around; he’d only been back here once, when first exploring the Shrine. It wasn’t a place used often. Cloud serpent designs looped around the curved ceiling of the hallway in gentle swirls, their bodies looped about one another, and their colors – black, red, azure, gold – shined bright from the gently-glowing lanterns positioned up on the higher walls.

“ - I understand the concern, Genn, but we can’t have your Gilneans unleash their battalion right now,” came a voice muffled from the stone, and Anduin stopped. It was his father. They had to be close.

“Can you stay here?” Anduin asked in an instinctual whisper. He looked at his guards. “I’ll be just a moment.”

“Prince Anduin -”

“There’s nowhere I can run,” Anduin added with a wry smile. “I’ll be back shortly. I promise.”

The guards still looked uncomfortable. Anduin didn’t blame them. He watched them shift their weight back and forth then finally look at one another and shrug.

“Okay,” the woman said. “We’ll stay here, Prince.”

Anduin smiled at them brilliantly and moved ahead. For whatever instinctual reason, he was being quieter about all of his movements; he even tried to make the tapping of his cane less evident. The prince smiled to himself. He felt like he was back in the Kun-lai cave, skirting up against the wall.

He turned a corner and stopped, slinking back again. Up ahead was a golden archway that opened up into a small chamber where in its center held a rounded table whose legs ended with snake heads. Spread against its surface as a leather map, and surrounding it were all the leaders of the Alliance and, Anduin was quick to note, the foreboding figure of Taran Zhu, his hat shadowing his eyes, and two of his Shado-pan flanked behind him.

Genn Greymane was looking at Varian with some annoyance creased at the edges of his gently wrinkled eyes. “We can hit the Horde in Undercity before the Forsaken have a chance to slip to Orgrimmar to bolster its reinforcements,” the worgen King argued. He leaned to point aggressively but directly at the map; Anduin couldn’t see, but he could only guess that the other king was pointing at the Forsaken’s capitol. “Sylvanas has retreated into the capitol. We haven’t heard news about her or her lackeys in months. If we can -”

“We should focus on Orgrimmar,” interrupted Tyrande. The tall night elf woman looked at Genn sharply, and the Gilnean king looked back with the same acuteness. “If Sylvanas hides, allow her, and if we find her in Orgrimmar, then we will react accordingly – but to focus such effort on a capitol that has stayed dormant is a foolish disregard for time and resources.”

“We may not even need to fight Sylvanas’s Forsaken in Orgrimmar,” Moira said. She had her arms crossed and was glaring down at the map. “O’ Bloodhoof’s tauren, o’ Vol’jin’s trolls, o’ – och, I hope ye’ get the blasted idea. Their lot ain’t gonna be backin’ Garrosh, an’ we all know that ‘cause of the revolution goin’ on – at least the majority ain’t. We dunno about Sylvanas, sure, Genn is right ‘bout that – but at the very least we just need to focus on Garrosh and ‘is Kor’kron.”

“And his other loyalists,” Varian murmured. The king was leaning against the table with his arms propping him up, and one of his hands began to drum against the map. “I’ve spoken to the scouts I sent, and the revolution is in full swing. We need to back it. Any weaknesses we can find is a weakness we need to focus on.”

“Before these bloody ‘revolutionists’ stab us in the back after we kill the Warchief,” Genn grumbled.

“It’s a better plan that trying to take out Undercity and Thunder Bluff, Genn,” Varian said. “A surer one. I know Sylvanas still needs justice, but it needs to wait.”

The worgen king locked his jaw, but nodded.

“Y’know,” High Tinkerer Mekkatorque piped up, “I was thinking. Just thinking, mind you, thinking aloud. Say we get Orgrimmar – and by all calculations we will get Orgrimmar, except the outlier of the very-large-and-foreboding-mining-site outside the walls, because who knows what could be down there? Another Divine Bell or three? I mean, with that humongous risk we could be facing some full-scale demonic presence -” the gnome leader seemed to realize everyone was staring at him and waiting to get on with it, so he nodded quickly. “- But, yes. If we take Orgrimmar, we have the other Horde to worry about. I doubt we’re gonna’ get along swimmingly after teamin’ up against a common foe. Genn’s right. They’re gonna try and sweep at us. We gotta’ plan a defensive or offensive to slip in after the Warchief is ka-puts.”

Tyrande frowned thoughtfully. “I have thought the same,” she murmured, then looked at Varian. “With this weakness to their high capitol we can take out the rest of the Horde. We may end this hundred year war.”

“Maybe,” Varian said. He was still staring at the map.

“Maybe!” Genn huffed. “Blast it, Varian, would you stop looking at that damn map and stare at us in the face? These two are right. With Orgrimmar down we can take the other cities with the revolution’s resources split. Hell, I don’t give a damn if we even hit Undercity last. We can grab the others and end it.”

“Thunder Bluff would be first,” Tyrande said. “It is the closest to Orgrimmar where our resources would be centered. Comprised of all its lifts, the city’s backup would be hindered upon returning from Orgrimmar and finding us there blocking them. It would be an intelligent move.”

“Thunder Bluff would take too long,” Moria complained. “An’ yer’ night elves are too far north fer worthy reinforcements. We’d be plucked at by the soldiers left behind from atop the lifts. A terrible siege plan.”

“Alright, alright,” Varian said and lifted his hand for silence. He stood upright. “I understand we’re all eager to end this, but we need to think about Orgrimmar first, the city we have yet to take. Agreed?”

Most of the Alliance leaders nodded except for Tyrande and Genn Greymane.

“Alright. As we speak the revolution is gathering supplies for the siege, as are our own troops in the Barrens – that’s taken care of so far. But Mekkatorque brought a good point about the Vale -”

“Something you should all be focusing on,” Taran Zhu interrupted with his gruff voice. He had been staring quietly at the entourage, but now he was glaring. “I have given the Horde an ultimatum to leave the Vale or be forcibly pushed out. This is a sacred place and to dig so deeply is sacramental,” the Shado-pan continued. “I do not condone your race war, but I will not condone help against these fiends.”

“Do you have any reports about what they’re finding down there?” Varian asked.

“No. I could not get too close, and my Shado-pan withdrew by my order after my ultimatum – my troops are drawn thin as is,” Taran Zhu huffed. “The Sha, the mantid, the Thunder King, now this.” He squinted at Varian in accusation, and Anduin found himself honestly surprised to see such anger directed at his father. He’d never really seen someone – besides himself, of course – that had had enough bravery to yell at the High King. “I received a hawk this morning that has even reported that Sik’vess was destroyed thanks to your venture,” the Shado-pan leader grumbled. “The mantid have risen their new Empress and they will take it as another hostility against them, and such attacks the Shado-pan cannot fight back after the assault on the Thunder King. You may as well doomed us for the third time.”

Anduin felt his throat close. That had been no fault of his own, he thought. If he had just dodged Sabellian’s claws when the dragon had grabbed him, if he hadn’t been so helpless and had gotten himself kidnapped again, then Sik’vess would still be secure and the mantid dormant for the time being.

The thought made him wonder how Wrathion was doing. Was he okay -?

“That was no fault of mine,” Varian said with a surprisingly even voice, one that made Anduin focus back in on the conversation at hand. He smiled lightly; his father really did seem to be working on his patience, and the sudden realization made the tightness in his throat relax. At least that was a good thing. “My son was in danger, and thanks to the Shado-pan harpoons, we were able to take down the dragon that destroyed Sik’vess. I owe you greatly for letting your Shado-pan lend them,” the king added slowly.

Varian was playing a game, here, Anduin knew – a very careful one.

“Yes. I am glad for the boy’s safety,” Taran Zhu admitted, though he still sounded as angry as he ever did. “But even then the fact remains that while you lot bicker and argue, the mantid may as well be rising again for another strike – and I have further reports that the giant lizard who set the kypari tree aflame is alive. What other foolish acts have you done?”

“As if the Cataclysm didn’t get us enough dealings with black dragons,” Genn mused, a tone of bitterness in his voice. “Bit absurd to leave the monster alive, Varian.”

“I followed a request, against my better judgment,” Varian said. He looked at Genn, and Anduin saw that the leveled look in Varian’s eyes was started to sink down into aggravation. “The dragon is our least concern. Anduin is alive, and that’s all that matters. Again, Taran Zhu, I am grateful for the harpoons, but what’s done is done, and I cannot rebuild Sik’vess. We can only hope the mantid take the insult lightly.”

“Lightly,” Taran Zhu repeated with a scoff. “Yes, we can only hope, can we?”

Varian ground his teeth. “Let’s focus on the concerns that are inevitable rather than concerns that might crop up in the future,” the king said. “I can send scouts into the pit the Horde is digging. We can find out what Garrosh is looking for at day’s end, and if it’s something like the Divine Bell – we can end it before an artifact like that causes damage like the last one did.”

No one needed to be told what damage that was. Anduin’s leg throbbed. He locked his jaw.

“I will volunteer my sentinels,” Tyrande spoke up. “They are the quickest; the shadows will hide them.”

“Perfect. Send them out as quickly as you can.”

Anduin drew back quietly; he’d heard enough.

He started back towards his guards. They looked at him almost in surprise, as if they hadn’t really expected him to come back, before they shuffled out of the way as he slipped past them and continued down the hallway with a thoughtful frown.

Even in the brief eavesdrop, he’d learned so much his head was spinning.

There was a revolution in the Barrens. The Horde and the Alliance alike were working together to begin a siege on Orgrimmar. Taran Zhu had given an ultimatum for the Horde to leave the Vale. The drive to dig in the Vale was still unknown.

And if they took Orgrimmar, they might take the rest of the Horde cities and end the war.

Anduin tightened his grip on his cane. He felt conflicted. Taking Orgrimmar was a necessity – even as a man of peace, he was acutely aware of how needed it was to take down the Warchief, or at least, dismantle him from the position if he could be negotiated with -… though remembering the talk he had with Garrosh at the Divine Bell, Anduin realized that Garrosh was not one you often “negotiated” with. It was his way, or no one’s way.

Anduin sighed.

Taking Orgrimmar was one thing. But taking Thunder Bluff? Undercity? He slipped through the end of the hallway and found himself back where the ethereal was. The wind-being looked at him, gave a dramatic nod, and turned back to tinkering with the same golden ring.

Anduin ignored it. He went out to the portal room without really looking or realizing where he was going; his eyes were trained on the ground and his brows sloped over them with such a concentrated expression he might as well have been planning the siege of Orgrimmar and all its complexities in his own head.

Maybe, he thought, he could talk his father out of attacking Thunder Bluff – but even then, Varian himself had not seemed as gung-ho as Tyrande and Genn had, and that alone confused Anduin. His father had been in this war longer than Anduin had been alive; the prince figured that the king would be as vehement about it as the others.

But he hadn’t seemed it. Anduin shook his head. Why?

He didn’t know. Anduin stopped walking and looked around. He was at the edge of the portal room; he didn’t even remember walking through it.

The fact, at least, that the Horde and the Alliance were teaming up was enough to lighten Anduin’s mood – somewhat. He frowned. If they teamed up on this, couldn’t they team up on other things, like thoughts of peace? If they get along now, against a common enemy, couldn’t their leaders realize that they continue doing so without more deaths and bloodshed against their citizens?

Anduin turned to glance at the Alliance capitol cities. Was the Horde thinking the same thing as the Alliance was? Were they, too, wondering about the weakness to their defenses the destruction of Orgrimmar would bring, and were they, too, thinking about assaulting an Alliance city, in turn?

The prince gripped his cane so hard he felt the wood begin to scratch into his skin in pricks of pain. And then there was -

The Vale. He still hadn’t seen it.

With how low his mood had become, Anduin wasn’t totally sure he wanted to, now – but he had to. He knew had to. He wanted to, somewhere deep down – but he realized he was afraid of what he was about to see.

A flicker of curiosity tapped at his chest. The destruction of the Vale was one thing – what they were digging up was another.

He drew himself up and, with a deep breath, started out to the last flight of stairs leading down into the main floor.

Maybe he would find out what Garrosh wanted for himself.


	20. Chapter 20

There were voices: far off, distant noises that were more senseless murmurings than words. Nasandria tried to listen, but everything was too foggy for focus; she felt like she was in some dark cloud, formless, floating, unable to grasp onto any sense of reality.

Where was she? It wasn’t as cold as it used to be when she had crossed the sea. Nasandria shuddered on impulse. She remembered the ocean waves below her, their white caps cresting as she forced her wings to fly, hours upon hours alone in the clouds, feeling her chest tighten and her throat seize as the cold in her stomach inched out, slowing her bit by bit, until her flame was gone.

She hardly remembered landing on the beach, her chest and remaining forearm taking the brunt of the hard collision against the sand. She _did_ remember the white-and-black furred face peering in front of hers, and she had been so _hungry_ , unable to catch fish with her new disability and her lack of strength from the disease to eat in days, she’d snapped at him and regrettably missed.

But everything else was a blur. There was some hazy recollection of being loaded onto something, some soothing words, a gentle hand on her neck, a mist-like feeling against her eyes – and then, nothing. Just the cold.

The cold was gone, now, though. That was good, at least.

She struggled to brush passed the haze; the voices were still talking. Who were they? What were they saying? She could have curled her lip in aggravation if she could actually move.

Time passed. How long, Nasandria knew little – but when small pinpricks of feeling began to prickle into the very tips of her remaining hand, she focused in on it desperately, and her body, in turn, slowly began to awaken, sluggish like its own entity and not apart of her.

Nasandria remained still as her flesh glowed back to life, her skin newly-hot against her leather clothes. She nearly breathed out in sheer relief at the return of her warmth, but held it back, remembering the voices, who were beginning to sharpen in quality but remained muted in tone. Who knew if they were enemies or allies? It was best to let them think she was still sleeping.

So she waited.

Her body adjusted quickly. Soon the numbness was gone, as well as the daze in her head, and she could sense she was laying down on some sort of slim mat which was surprisingly comfortable and soft. She flexed her hand, and her fingertips brushed against the cot. It was warm, like someone had heated it for her.

But that wasn’t what was catching her attention. It was the smell – a sharp, pungent thing that smelled of foreign spices and cut wood and burning flame, and the scents were so mixed and so strong and so _sudden_ as her senses awoke with the rest of her body Nasandria nearly sneezed and wretched, but forced herself under control before she could give her wakefulness away.

Where _was_ she? The question thrummed at her temple. The fog from her head might have gone, but her confusion had not.

The voices had stopped. Perhaps this was her chance. Cautiously, Nasandria slit open one of her eyes.

She was in a small, dark room. Lining the walls were tall, yellow-white candles, their wax dripping in bumps to harden around their blue tiger-paw holders at the floor; their light was warm and flickering. Murals made of slim bamboo slots hung behind four statues of different creatures: a serpent-like dragon, a tiger, an ox, and a crane, but in the darkness, Nasandria couldn’t make out what the artwork depicted.

Honestly, though, she didn’t mind _that –_ what she was really focusing on were the two people on the opposite end of the room, standing across from one another. Though it was difficult to tell through the slim view she had, her one eye only _just_ parted, Nasandria could just make out some vague features: the one on the left was a tall woman, wearing some sort of robe, and the one on the right -… oh. It was a pandaren, thick around the belly, and he wore his own robe of blue and silver.

The woman nodded once. The pandaren set his rounded red ears flat against his furred scalp.

“I suppose we could arrange it,” the pandaren murmured. Nasandria was glad their voices were no longer warbled. “Xuen might be displeased.”

“I am sure Xuen will understand,” responded the woman. Her voice was smooth and strong, but there was a sigh in her tone, a sadness, an exhaustion that Nasandria picked up on quickly.

“Are you sure you don’t wish to speak to him?”

The woman nodded. “Later, perhaps. But not now.”

The pandaren hesitated, but replied with his own quiet nod.

“Kalecgos will remain here. That I have little doubt of,” the woman said, and she turned her head to Nasandria. Alarmed, Nasandria snapped her eye closed, unsure if she had been quick enough.

Silence. Nasandria felt her heart begin to beat harder. They two did not seem hostile, she tried to tell herself – if they were, surely they would have killed her already… unless they wanted something from her, of course.

Like the Eye. A sudden terror clenched at Nasandria’s throat. She didn’t feel her satchel at her waist.

She couldn’t have come this far to have lost it this easily. No. It was impossible. She took a breath. She hadn’t had that… _cursed_ thing strapped to her waist during her terrible, diseased flight, as the ghost of her left arm plucked at her cauterized elbow, fooling her into the belief it remained, and she woke night after night on the small islands she’d stopped on from nightmares of the smell of her own burning flesh and her arm oozing with that disgusting blackness, and after she’d nearly thrown the Eye of the Watchers into the sea three, four, five times, she’d stopped herself, slowly put it back into her satchel, and pressed on, for nothing.

To have lost it when she was _this close_ -

Nasandria sat up, opened her eyes, and snarled. A wave of nausea smashed into her temple, but she pushed through it, unthinking, as she slipped her hand down to her waist where the satchel had hung.

It wasn’t there. She looked down and found her hand and belt empty.

Footsteps approached from her left. Nasandria stared at her empty hand.

“Hello,” came the woman’s voice. “There’s no reason for alarm.”

Nasandria whipped her head around to glare at the woman. Up close, she could actually get a good look at this stranger: her long hair was red and soft, her robe was of crimson silk, and her eyes were a dark orange ringed with a fiery yellow. She had a sharp, authoritative face, all angles and sharp edges, but there was a softness in her eyes.

“Where is it?” Nasandria demanded, though her voice came out as a throaty rasp, more of a hiss than anything audible. The sudden need for water panged at her dry mouth, but she ignored it. “Where is it?!”

The woman hesitated. The sense of collected coolness about her annoyed Nasandria.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the stranger replied quietly.

Nasandria scowled. “My satchel. You took it.” It was becoming harder to speak; with every word her throat felt like it was closing the tiniest bit more.

“No one has stolen it,” the woman said. She moved a bit closer – and it was then that Nasandria caught the woman’s scent beneath the harsh incense, a scent of a burning flame and blooming flowers.

Nasandria tore back, alarmed. This was a red dragon, and her elbow began to seize with pain, a reminder that the reds had used the Eye, the Eye that had maimed her forever.

“It’s alright,” the red dragon explained, seeing her sudden fear. “I will not harm you.”

Nasandria swallowed hard, trying to force her heart to still. So what if she was a red dragon, she tried to tell herself – but the pangs of panic were not lessening, and she could begin to smell her own seared flesh again as she had at the Badlands in that cursed tomb. She took a breath.

“What do you want?” Nasandria demanded. She flickered her eyes around the room. Had they captured her, knowing she had the Eye? The pandaren on the far side of the room was watching with worry, his ears flat.

“Nothing, little one. I only want your health and safety.” The woman moved back a step, and Nasandria relaxed, in turn. “I have healed your sickness, and waited until you woke before I took my leave.”

Nasandria squinted at her suspiciously. “You healed me?”

The woman nodded, folding her hands into the long sleeves of her carmine silk robe.

“Thanks,” Nasandria murmured, both unsure and surprised. She shifted awkwardly, then winced; her entire body ached. Exhaustion prickled at her coldly.

“A friend of mine will care for you,” the red dragon said. “He is kind, and young like you. Do not fear him.”

Nasandria stared at her. Now she really had no idea what was going on. This red dragon had healed her, had waited for her to wake up, and now she was just… leaving?

“Okay,” Nasandria said slowly, drawing out the word and raising a brow.

The red dragon smiled. She nodded her head to Nasandria, her long red hair falling around her shoulders.

And then she turned and was gone through the archway at the end of the room, and the bright light of the candles dimmed at her leave.

Nasandria was bewildered. She looked around, expecting some trap to spring at her, expecting the red dragon to have tried to caught her off guard with the weird speech.

But none came. Slowly, Nasandria forced herself to relax.

The monk looked at Nasandria apologetically.

“Are you hungry?” He asked, and the drake nodded.

In the next hour they brought her enough food to feed a small party – and she ate all of it, scarfing it down like some starving hound, and only slowed by the awkwardness of her one arm. She had never quite realized how two had come in handy, and the sudden learning curve was a harsh one.

It was after she’d devoured her third plate of chicken and noodles and pushed the empty dish aside when there came a quiet knock from the end of the room. Nasandria looked up, as did the monk who was now relighting the tall candles.

“Come in,” the pandaren called.

A man in a brown tunic, belted over with thick straps ending in a bright blue diamond across his chest, entered the small room. His trousers were the same color as his shirt, and his shoulder-length hair as blue as the decorated gem at his torso. He smiled a friendly smile at the monk, then glanced with an open curiosity at Nasandria.

Nasandria narrowed her eyes. The smell of the incense had since dulled, and she could easily catch the scent of this stranger: dragon.

But not a red. He smelled like sharp ice and snow and the electrified smell of the arcane. A blue. Nasandria’s hand curled into a loose, nervous fist. What had she gotten herself into?

“May I speak to her for a moment?” The blue dragon asked the monk.

The pandaren glanced back at Nasandria. She nodded warily, but kept her eyes at the other dragon; he smiled at her.

“Where’s Alexstrasza?” The blue asked the monk as he walked down the small hall, setting something from his shoulder near the ox statue.

Alexstrasza? Nasandria narrowed her eyes. He couldn’t possibly mean the red dragon that had been in here -…

The monk hesitated.

“She’s left,” he said, and the blue looked at him sharply. “I will speak to you of it later.”

The dragon’s shoulders had gone stiff like the raised hackles of a nervous dog, but he soon sighed and relaxed, sweeping a blue-gloved hand over his pale face.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Thank you.” He dropped his hand. “Can you give us a couple minutes, please?”

The pandaren nodded. Nasandria watched him go.

The blue dragon turned to her and smiled again. He was rather close, and Nasandria glowered at him.

“Hello,” he said. He extended his hand. “I’m Kalecgos.”

Kalecgos. Nasandria stared at his face, then at his outstretched hand. She knew his name – the blue dragon who’d been possessed by demonic forces, and then later, became a temporary Aspect. News across the Dark Portal may have been slow to come, but it was always rather reliable.

Kalecgos hesitated. He looked at his hand, then back at her. “Oh – I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s what humans do to greet each oth -”

“I know what handshake is,” Nasandria interrupted, voice like sandpaper. She tried clearing her throat, but found it too dry to even cough.

Wrinkling her nose, she eyed him critically. “I just don’t want to shake yours.”

“Oh.” Kalecgos paused before withdrawing his hand. He smiled the nervous smile again. “My apologies for the forwardness. May I ask your name?”

“Nasandria,” she replied briskly, sitting up straighter in her slim cot and careful not to knock down the candles burning behind her.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Kalecgos said. He clasped his hands together, paused, then unlatched them again, letting them hang awkwardly at his sides. “I’m glad to see you’re healthy. You seemed in bad condition when I first saw you.”

Nasandria shrugged, glancing down to pull at the strings of her knee-high black boots. She didn’t recall seeing Kalecgos before – but then again, she hardly remembered coming up to this Temple.

She was vaguely annoyed by it. Not looking up from her boot, she only murmured a _mhm_.

Kalecgos studied her silently for a moment before sighing to himself. He moved away, and Nasandria thought she’d simply scared him off until he grabbed a small chair nestled to the side of the wall, hauled it up, and sat it down in front of her.

He sat down, and the mahogany chair squeaked underneath him.

“I know you don’t want to talk,” Kalecgos began, and he joined his hands together again to place them on his thighs, “but I do have some questions for you, if you don’t mind answering them.”

“It depends on the questions,” Nasandria replied snidely, looking up from the strings. She’d never met a blue dragon before – much less one that used to be the Aspect of the blues – but from what she’d been told, they were suckers for knowledge. This one seemed no different… though she had some idea of just what kind of questions he was going to ask, much to her chagrin.

“They won’t be too terrible, I promise,” Kalecgos said, smiling warmly. It was quick to fade when he spoke again. “I know some things, already, but I’d like to simply sort some information out.”

Nasandria stared at him, wordless.

“I’d heard about this dragon from Outland – Sabellian,” Kalecgos began, and Nasandria stiffened. Kalecgos seemed to pick up on her sudden change of posture, because he smiled quickly again. “No, it’s alright. I’m not out to get any of you. Are you his daughter, or -?”

“Yes,” Nasandria interrupted. Her voice was a snap.

Kalecgos nodded. “You came over from the Dark Portal with him, then.”

“Obviously?”

“Was it just the two of you?”

“Why?” Nasandria squinted at him. “What are these questions for?”

“I just need to know the circumstances. We all thought the Black Dragonflight was… extinct, honestly. To see you years after the Cataclysm is a bit of a shock.”

“I guess.” Nasandria twirled the loose ends of her boot’s lace in her pointer finger.

“So how many black dragons are there in Outland, Nasandria?”

He was pushing it. Glaring, Nasandria stayed silent.

Kalecgos tilted his head. His blue hair swayed idly with the movement, falling across his face; he brushed it away. “I’m sorry. That’s probably asking a bit too much.” Again he paused. His bright blue eyes studied her, and Nasandria could see his thoughts working behind them, bright and calculated. “Nasandria, where did you come from?”

“Outland.”

“Well – no, I know that. I meant where were you flying from when you landed at Zouchin Village?”

Zouchin Village? That must have been where she’d crashed – where she’d snapped at the pandaren child.

Nasandria hesitated. Sabellian had sent her in secrecy to the Badlands; he wouldn’t like her giving away the same information so easily, especially to this poor excuse for a dragon.

So she stayed quiet, and glowered at the blue dragon, twirling the lace on her finger back and forth and back and forth as the candles hissed quietly. Somewhere far off, she heard muffled, clanging banging, like poles smacking against wood.

Kalecgos sighed. He didn’t seem displeased, exactly, but only resigned.

“I know you’re uncomfortable, but really -”

“Please stop with the apologizing and patronizing,” Nasandria huffed. “It’s honestly making me want to strangle you.”

Kalecgos widened his eyes, startled.

“Oh,” the blue dragon stammered, then quickly cleared his throat. “I’m sorr -”

Kalecgos stopped himself; he furrowed his brows. He looked at her, but it looked as if he was looking _passed_ her, focusing in on something Nasandria couldn’t see.

It was not a moment later before the tense confusion on his face relaxed, and he forced a strained smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

What an odd dragon, Nasandria mused. How had _he_ been chosen as Aspect?

“Alright. I suppose I’ll try to be as frank as possible,” Kalecgos said. “I don’t want to waste your time.”

“Thanks.”

Kalecgos nodded. He twisted around in his seat and reached out to grab the thing he’d set by the ox statue, only just able to grab the strap by the straining of the tips of his fingers. With a low grunt he sat back straight in his seat.

Nasandria stared. Placed at his knees was her satchel; the leather was worn by the salt of the sea, the color bleached in speckled spots against the dark daggerscale bag, but the golden clasp was locked and its gullet was full. The Eye was still inside.

She swallowed hard and looked up at Kalecgos. He was watching her carefully.

“So you’re the one who took it,” Nasandria said.

“Yes.” Kalecgos reached out and undid the scuffed golden clasp without hesitation, and Nasandria realized, then, that he had opened it before. Her throat grew tight; he had seen what was inside.

It seemed her earlier worries about what he would ask about were about to be confirmed.

Gingerly, Kalecgos reached into the bag and pulled out the Eye. The spherical object glinted warmly in the light of the candles, looking for all the world an innocent, rounded piece of rough bronze. He balanced it in the palm of his hand.

Nasandria recoiled. Kalecgos’s eyes flickered with concern, and he lowered the Eye to rest on one of his thighs.

“What is this?” Kalecgos asked as he let go of the bag in his other hand, where it slid down and nearly tumbled to the ground, though he was quick to jerk his leg up to stop it from the fall. Nasandria would have smiled – him looking at her in such concentration and the sudden, jarring movement of his leg was strangely comical to her – but she felt as if the Eye was watching her, and her seared elbow prickled. This was not a time for smiles.

Nasandria swallowed. She tore her eyes away from the Eye to stare at Kalecgos.

“I don’t really know,” Nasandria murmured. Her voice cracked dryly.

Kalecgos frowned. He moved the satchel so it was hanging at the armrest of the chair before placing both of his large-palmed hands against the sides of the Eye.

“You must have some idea,” the blue dragon prodded. His voice was gentle, but there was an undercurrent of curious insistence in his tone. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of Titan technology like this coming from Outland. Did you find it here, in Pandaria?”

“Why are you so keen to know?” Nasandria snapped.

“I’m only curious. Artifacts like this are a specialty of mine.”

“Then you should know what it is already.”

Kalecgos hesitated. He looked away from her to squint down at the quiet Eye and, in the silence of the candles, turned it around in his hands, his fingers smoothing over the bumps with a strangely graceful touch.

“Maybe,” Kalecgos sighed. One of his thumbs tapped against one of the Eye’s course bumps. “But in my experience, the technology the Titans left behind is so vast, it’s difficult to know what everything they had can do.” The blue dragon looked up and gave her a small smile. He no longer looked nervous, or strained; he looked to be in his element, his bright eyes alight and his posture set and open.

Nasandria said nothing. If he’d known what the thing _did,_ she thought sourly, then he wouldn’t look so damn intrigued.

“I’ve tried everything I can to activate it,” Kalecgos continued, sitting back in his chair. “It must be important to you. Have you managed to make it work?”

“No,” Nasandria said automatically. For a flicker, she felt a pang where her left arm had once been – but she forced her face to keep still. The ghost pains had come and gone; she would get used to them eventually, she thought.

Kalecgos frowned. He opened his mouth, but closed it again – and then he turned, grabbed the satchel, and carefully put the Eye back inside.

Nasandria was honestly surprised.

“I apologize,” Kalecgos said quietly. He swiveled in his chair to face her again, and put his hands on his thighs. “It’s rude of me to try to interrogate someone ill. I just love artifacts.. but it seems you don’t. Maybe I can ask later?”

The sentiment sounded so boyish Nasandria had to smile.

“Maybe,” Nasandria murmured. “If there is a later.”

Kalecgos tilted his head.

“Am I a prisoner, or what?” Nasandria asked, squinting at him.

Kalecgos hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Of course not. But you _are_ very weak, and the monks here are prepared to take care of you for as long as you need.”

Nasandria bit the inside of her cheek, her sharp teeth digging into the soft flesh there.

She was no longer sick – but she did feel weak, and though it frustrated her, she doubted if she could fly for even another day. Her trip across the sea had been a brutal one, and her back still ached from the severe strain she had enforced upon her wings; she would plummet to the ground the moment she tried to take off.

Nasandria saw her choices were slim. Slowly, she nodded.

“Okay. Good,” she said off-handedly. A sudden wave of exhaustion forced itself against her, and she swayed, once – Kalecgos reached out and with a cold hand steadied her by gently grabbing her shoulder. “I’m fine,” Nasandria snapped, and the blue dragon let go.

“If you need anything, please ask,” Kalecgos said. He rose and slid the satchel over his shoulder. “I or the monks will tend to you – and you can leave whenever you’d like.”

“With my satchel,” Nasandria said, and Kalecgos looked at her curiously. “I’ll leave with my satchel and the Eye.”

“The Eye?” Kalecgos repeated, and Nasandria realized that he hadn’t known the name. She inwardly cursed at her slip. His confusion dropped. “Of course. It’s yours. I’m not a thief.”

“Good.”

Kalecgos smiled, and despite the chill radiating around him, the gesture was warm. “I wish you luck on recovery,” he said. He shouldered the bag. “It was nice speaking to you, Nasandria.”

Nasandria squinted at him. Kalecgos nodded his head and moved away, his cloth-toed footsteps loud in the silent room, and soon he was gone.

—-

Even after hours in darkness, long enough to become accustomed to the shadows, Wrathion remained unnerved.

He sat with his back to the wall, his position unchanged as the silent minutes had dragged in the shadows, staying so still his thighs and spine tingled numbly. The only entertainment had been to stare up at the ceiling – and even then, Wrathion had gazed up for so long that he had inadvertently memorized the loops and patterns made of the dirt-crumbed roots above, which snaked in and out of the tall, slim ceiling with the organic movement of earthworms.

It was the quiet that was _really_ getting under his skin. Wrathion bit down harder on the inside of his cheek. The darkness, he could handle. The silence –… he wrinkled his nose, withholding a scoff. It was as if he could hear every single _thing_ below the earth, now that louder noises were nonexistent: every movement, every breath, every scuffle and grumble of dirt from unseen creatures hidden away in the earth, like the monstrous fish in the blackest parts of the great oceans.

Wrathion flexed his fingers, trying to distract himself from the nervous prickle at the back of his neck. The muscles of his left hand grew taught as he tried making his fingers into a curled fist, and he scowled weakly as a pulling pain grew near his elbow – he stopped, relaxing his hand again.

If only Anduin Wrynn had healed his arm _fully_ , Wrathion thought. What had the prince said? Something about how healing had a limit? Something about his leg?

Oh well. He didn’t remember. It was still extremely annoying.

Sighing, Wrathion looked down from the ceiling and, awkward with the cuffs, pushed up the sleeve of his left arm up – and frowned largely. His thin cast was in poor shape, scuffed with dirt and pocked with ripped holes that nearly reached through to his skin, and the ends were so badly frayed they looked like the fluffy tassels at the edges of a rug or blanket.

He went to slip his sleeve down again, but paused when he saw one of the slim scars peeking up above the fleshy underside of his forearm. Wrathion stared at it; something in his stomach went cold, and with a small scowl, he ran a thumb over the ghosted grey line, one of many that freckled his skin from Nasandria’s blade.

Wrathion shoved his sleeve back down. They would fade, he told himself. All of his injuries would – save for the huge chunk of precious time he had lost when dealing with this awful mess, a blow to his scheming and careful planning that was as bad as any of his physical injuries.

He turned his attention to the convict-in-question who had started the whole event, and glared. Sabellian had not moved, either: he remained sitting, leaning against the wall and swayed slightly to the right to avoid putting pressure against his wounded left hip, and his head was tilted back. In the deep darkness, Wrathion would not have been able to see most of the elder dragon’s features, but the green, enchanted fire at Sabellian’s snake-headed shoulderpads lit up his face and torso in a sickly fel-like glow.

Sabellian, however, was not looking at him - he was looking up, as Wrathion had, with drooped eyes and the permanently-annoyed frown on his face. It might have been a trick of the light, a light mixed of the green fire and the glow of the yellow amber, but Wrathion thought his relative looked a bit pale in the face.

Wrathion opened his mouth to comment on Sabellian’s sickly look, but stopped himself, remembering his insistence on keeping silent.

Wrathion’s glare grew more malicious – silence with a good reason, of course. Sabellian had had no _idea_ what he was talking about, taunting Wrathion like he had about the Burning Legion. How could an outdated dragon, exiled to some floating chunk of rock, know he would fail? Sabellian knew little of what Wrathion had planned, but even then, had insisted and insulted him.

It had been like that on the Townlong plains, too… and Wrathion had seen what Sabellian was doing this second time around. He knew enough about manipulation himself to, and Wrathion felt like an idiot not to see it the first time. It was a bitter thought. Scowling quietly, he flexed his claws.

But that had been when he had still allowed his weakness, and before he’d vowed to stop all of his doubt and fears, to swallow them and force them away, to bottle them up in his chest and bar in the back of his mind. No, Wrathion mulled, he would not be lectured to and chided at like he was some sort of unknowing child again.

The cold in his stomach that had curled deep inside upon seeing his scars was beginning to resurface. He needed to distract himself. Hurriedly, Wrathion snapped his attention to the amber cuffs around his wrists: thick, hearty pieces of amber rock embedded with elegant swirls of gold and orange beneath the rugged, unpolished crust.

They seemed to be unbreakable, and Wrathion was wary of what would happen if he were to _try_ to break them, somehow, unsure if they would grow so tight they would cut off circulation to his hands – and he didn’t, exactly, want to lose both of those body parts.

But he wasn’t about to sit here and simply wait for the mantid to come snatch him away, either… a thing he _and_ Sabellian had been doing for however long they’d been in this little cylinder of a hole, and Wrathion did not like the mention of sonar and Xaril’s comment that it might render them both “thoughtless.”

And he did not like all this talk of Y’shaarj. It made little to no sense for the mantid to suddenly begin being _gung-ho_ about their God which had long been dead – something had changed, and Wrathion wasn’t sure what. Either way, it was news he did not like, and Y’shaarj’s apparent growing desperation for the dragons was troublesome. The dead _thing_ had an entire army of bugs at His command – what could two dragons offer that the mantid did not?

Wrathion shook his head. He was missing something, and it only added to his growing frustration. Perhaps he would have _known_ if Sabellian hadn’t started this whole fiasco – his Blacktalons would have surely found it out… but here he was, stuck in a little cave, and unable to get out.

Wrathion frowned, frustrated, at the cuffs. Left and the surviving Blacktalons had stayed behind in that terrible room with the murals, leaving Wrathion on his own -… though he doubted that Left was simply keeping still. No doubt she, too, was working on her own plans for freedom, but even then, he had to work on his own, as well.

The cuffs were one obstacle – the doorway, the other, leaving out the mantid guards on the other side. There had to be some _mechanism_ to it…

Wrathion glanced again at Sabellian. The other dragon remained in the same position.

Wrathion hesitated, but, forcing through his earlier annoyance, whispered:

“Do you have _any_ idea how to get _out_ of here?”

Wrathion was loath to even _ask_ Sabellian for help, but – well, what was that odd little phrase humans said? “Beggars can’t be winners, or choosers,” or something of the like?

Sabellian did not react immediately, and when he did, it was subtle – a mere sigh and a deepening of his set frown.

Not looking away from the ceiling, the elder dragon replied, “If I did, I would have been far away by now… and I believe we have been over this.”

“Hardly. I only asked when you were going to shift into your dragon form. It’s much different.”

Sabellian looked at him, stared, and rolled his eyes before glaring back up at the ceiling, muttering something Wrathion couldn’t catch under his breath.

“If you could put the wholeof Lion’s Landing into hibernation, you have _some_ intellect,” Wrathion whispered hoarsely. “You’ve been sitting there for _who_ knows how long, and I’m _sure_ you have _some_ idea -”

“But you are Wrathion, the _Black Prince_ ,” Sabellian interrupted smoothly, smiling snidely, his nose scrunching up with the sneer as he looked back down to Wrathion. “I would hope with your… reputation, you would be intelligent enough to find your own way out.”

Wrathion ground his teeth. “You’re being stubborn on purpose.”

“No. I’m simply being unhelpful.”

Wrathion scowled and looked back down at his cuffs.

So much for that. He could forget Sabellian; the old dragon wasn’t going to offer anything. No doubt, Wrathion thought, Sabellian _did_ have some plan, but didn’t want to share.

Well, fine. Wrathion would do this on his own.

But again the question of _how_ lurked, and he grumbled quietly. He twisted his hands back and forth, and the amber was warm against the soft underside of his wrists.

Maybe flame would work. Wrathion glanced at the doorway, paused to try to discern any sounds of the mantid below and, finding none, turned back to the cuffs, opened his mouth into a near-whistling sort of movement, and blew a slim, cylindrical line of fire forth from the center of his chest.

The flame ran hot against the amber. The cuffs began to glow a yellow-hot, shimmering gold upon its craggy surface.

Wrathion drew out his flame as long as possible, far passed when his chest grew breathless, too intent on watching the cuffs, waiting for them to succumb and liquify as they had done in Rik’kal’s skilled hands -…

He was too out of breath. His flame puttered out, and he coughed, hacked, once, sucking in a quick breath. His head a bit in a spin, Wrathion squinted at the cuffs – and grinned. They _did_ look a bit more liquid than solid, a slowly-dripping goop that was hot against his wrists.

Wrathion did not delay, and, still out of breath, went to pull his hands apart.

The amber solidly resisted. Instead of freedom, his wrists were met with a strengthened resistance, and the surprising rebound sent a shock of pain up his healing left arm; the sudden agony and the simple unexpectedness of it made Wrathion double over with a shuddering gasp, his eyes wide and prickling wetly as the pain pulsed.

Oh, it _hurt_ – but even through the ringing in his ears he heard Sabellian actually _chuckle_ , and Wrathion snapped his head up, scowling, though remained doubled over, still too much in pain to actually move the rest of his body.

Sabellian was watching him, one eyebrow quirked.

“That was a terrible idea,” the elder dragon said idly, just as Wrathion felt his cuffs slink closer together until he could feel his heartbeat settle uncomfortably in the tips of his fingers.

Wrathion growled but looked away.

The amber had returned to its normal gold glow, and any evidence of its small amount of liquefaction was replaced with a bumpy hardness.

Wrathion glared at it. His eyebrows scrunched up, and one of his canines bit down on his bottom lip so hard he nearly drew blood. His arm still hurt.

So much for _that_.

“Honestly,” Wrathion murmured, turning his hands and wrists around carefully, much more cautiously than before. The cuffs were tighter enough, already.

What else? There had to be _some_ way to get out of these. Every minute he was sitting here, the quicker that Xaril would finish that potion of his, and Wrathion wasn’t going to wait around for that fate -

Wrathion paused. He’d heard someone shift and move behind him, deep in the earth.

He swallowed hard and shook away the goosebumps appearing on his arms.

No. Hah. He’d like to see Y’shaarj _try_ to get him.

Not like he was going to give Him the chance, of course. Wrathion studied the amber. The pain in his arm had lessened, but the taut tension was still tight in where the break and twisting had occurred, and it did not quite help his concentration.

Wrathion glanced up. Sabellian was no longer looking at him, and Wrathion found himself uncaring. He eyed the closed-off archway. Maybe he could -

He paused. The amber embedded in the earthen walls glowed faintly around the close door, shining against the thick roots and rock -… so much like gems.

Gems. Wrathion stared – then he grinned so widely his smile was shark-like.

The amber might have come from the kypari trees, but they thrived from the nourishment from the earth, right, Wrathion thought? He raised his hands and squinted at the cuffs. There was _some_ link – right? He tilted his head. It was like the hypothetical link he’d found out with Y’shaarj and the Empress.

It was worth a try.

Wrathion, keeping his hands up, closed his eyes, his smile still stretched across his face.

His concentration was quick to come, if a bit too rushed; he felt a bit dizzy as the darkness in his mind’s eye warped too fast, spinning and sinking from the initial blackness behind his eyelids to a deeper, more solid shadow, void of distraction and light even from the slim glow of the amber, a strong meditative state he’d mastered here in Pandaria, and one he’d done countless times when connecting, more in-tune, with the earth.

\- Like when he was making his gems for his Blacktalons, and more recently, Anduin Wrynn. But this was a bit different. Wrathion paused and tilted his head the other way. He listened, and felt. The earth, an ever-present, solid, comforting presence even when he was not in such a meditative state, hummed with _life_ around him. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the earthen walls, the circumference of the room, how deep they were underground. His whole body lit up with energy, and his smile dropped into a more content, relaxed one; he’d never done his concentration so deep in the earth before, and it felt rather nice, like he was being held by the earth itself.

Shifting into his concentration was easy – now came the hard part. Wrathion moved his focus and reached out with his mind, probing gently for any sort of signals coming off of his amber cuffs. Gems often gave off a warm feeling in his temple, a sort of living glow, and through careful work he had been able to transform the literal life from blood into the same glow natural, earth-made gems gave off – perhaps the amber had the same, or similar, presence.

He wasn’t finding such a presence. Bubbles of frustration began in his chest. There _had_ to be -

Oh. Ah. There it was. His grin returned. Though not as brilliant as the life-glow of a jewel, the amber was giving off a subtle, muted hum – more like a whisper of energy than anything, but one Wrathion could tell had promise of greater power, power he probably could not tap into himself, but that the mantid obviously could.

But he didn’t _need_ its power. All he needed was to _manipulate_ the amber – all he needed to do was _move_ it.

Wrathion took a steadying breath. He centered himself further – then, slowly, he reached out with his mind again and tried to grab onto the amber glow, wrapping his own power from his chest and head onto the golden cuffs -

He felt the earth around him begin to vibrate, and not with it usual, comforting hum. This time, it was physically moving.

Wrathion ignored it; it must have been a simple side-effect of his harsh focus.

He was so _close_ , but each time he went to harness onto the elemental power of the amber, it felt like his mental hands were slipping, his fingers doused in oil, unable to grab a hold.

Wrathion scowled, but he wasn’t about to give up that easily; it was either this, or waiting for the mantid to come, and the former was a trite more important.

The ground shook more as he continued his focus. Something growled, low and threatening, like a cornered, scared animal, and Wrathion felt so far into himself he wasn’t sure who or what it could have been, and he honestly found himself uninterested.

His concentration began to slither over the energy of the amber – he’d gotten a handhold. His chest welled up in excitement. Just a bit more -

There! He’d grabbed on, fully, to the amber’s glow with his own elemental prowess, and the energy of the mantid’s life-source hummed in his chest, warm and strangely syrupy.

Now all he had to do was tell it to move. Wrathion took another breath, this one a bit more nervous, a bit more shaky, and began to goad the amber cuffs back.

Nothing happened, at first, and Wrathion’s excitement began to deflate until he began feeling the amber respond – slowly, of course, but it was _moving_ , snaking outward, its hard grip around his wrists loosening and loosening -

“What are you _doing_?”

The snarl was so abrupt and so ferocious Wrathion startled, and his grip of concentration was ripped away in the split-second he lost his focus.

Reality slammed back into him so hard he jerked back with a surprised, choked gasp, and, his head and vision swimming, Wrathion opened his eyes, the dark cave a blur, and it was then that the vibrating earth, the earth he had physically moved on accident, stopped shifting about around where he was sitting, and the small pebbles bouncing up and down like a force-field around him grew still.

“What?” Wrathion said automatically, and even his own voice sounded a bit warped. He squinted hard and, through his daze, saw Sabellian sitting up so straight and in such an offensive position – his shoulders drawn back, one hand curled into a tight fist at his side, his orange eyes glaring – that the elder dragon seemed ready to lunge at him at any moment.

“Do _not_ do that _trick_ again, whelp,” Sabellian growled, then paused to glance down at the ground around Wrathion, his eyes narrowed dangerously, before he looked back up again.

Wrathion was beginning to snap out of his forced daze. He blinked once, hard, and stared at Sabellian in confusion.

“Trick,” Wrathion repeated. “I was – you -” He ended his fragmented sentence with a frustrated, loud growl, then stomped one of his feet on the floor. “I almost _had it_!” Wrathion hissed, nearly yelling but quickly remembering the mantid who had promised to take his tongue earlier. He went to point at Sabellian, then again remembered the cuffs and his inability to sway around his hands, and, beyond frustrated, smacked his hands vertically and stiffly into his face and yelled, the sound muffled and garbled, into his palms.

Wrathion stopped. Smoke was drifting from the cracks in his hands. He glared through his fingers, took a breath, and slowly looked up from his hands to give Sabellian a terrible glare that could have cut through rock.

Sabellian was still staring at him, but seemed a bit more relaxed than he had been previously.

Wrathion glowered. Sabellian looked wholly unaffected.

“Why,” Wrathion stared slowly, “would you ever,” he dropped his hands from his face, “ _do that_.”

“For your own good,” Sabellian stated as if it was obvious.

Wrathion stared. The elder dragon looked so _uptight –_ and then Wrathion recalled the growl, the low, rumbling, cornered snarl he’d brushed away in his trance, and realized.

“You were scared,” Wrathion said, and something unreadable shifted in Sabellian’s face – and Wrathion knew he had him.

“You _were_ scared!” Wrathion exclaimed, forgetting his loudness.

Sabellian scowled. “I was not ‘scared,’ you insolent little brat,” the elder dragon growled. “Being wary would be a better term for it.”

“No, I believe you were scared.”

Sabellian glared at him.

“What were you scared _of_?” Wrathion asked, his voice a coo. Oh, this was _rich_ , he thought. He _finally_ had _something_ to make fun of Sabellian with – though, of course, his question was a viable one, as he honestly was unsure of what, exactly, Sabellian was afraid of in regards to what Wrathion was doing.

“Do not treat me like some hatchling,” Sabellian snapped. “I was not afraid of anything. It was your manipulation of the earth that was making me wary,” he continued, stressing the word _wary_. “It’s foolish. Do not partake in it again.”

Wrathion tilted his head. A slow grin spread up his face.

“So you’re scared of the earth?” Wrathion remarked smugly, then clucked his tongue once in admonishment.

“If you would stop putting words in my mouth -”

“Oh, I’m not,” Wrathion interrupted. “Only… gathering information from what you’re outright telling me, Sabellian.” He smiled lightly. “Why would you _ever_ be scared of the act of manipulation if it was not for fear of the element itself? It’s simple extrapolation – and with how you look so terribly offended, I can assure myself that I’m _very much_ right.” Wrathion’s smile grew. “Now. What was that about earlier, about how I am the Black Prince, and _what_ about my intelligence?”

Sabellian growled. If it was not for the elder dragon’s own cuffs and his harpoon wounds, Wrathion was sure he would have attacked, he looked so angry, but fortunately for Wrathion, that was very much not the case.

“Why would you ever be afraid of the earth?” Wrathion continued, too enthralled with his teasing to stop, and too interested to let it go. “You’re a black dragon. You should feel at home in this… lovely little… ah, cave.”

“I doubt you feel ‘at home’ in this wretched hole,” Sabellian snapped back, and Wrathion hesitated.

“Well, I’m certainly not afraid of it,” Wrathion countered. “Just a bit ‘wary’ of who put us in here,” he added, using _wary_ with a bit of a mocking tone. When Sabellian only glared and stayed silent, Wrathion continued. “Why are you suddenly so quiet, Sabellian? Surely you’d _love_ to lecture me about the horrors of what I was doing. What, I moved a single pebble? Oh, the _nerve_ of it.”

“I hardly care if you endanger yourself by moving and manipulating the earth,” Sabellian said, and his voice was so calm Wrathion knew it was deadly, “but do not do it in front of me. I would like to remain leagues away from such idiocy.”

“There’s nothing dangerous about it,” Wrathion said. Now he was a bit confused, and of course the one time Wrathion really did need Sabellian to explain, the elder dragon was staying silent. Maybe Wrathion could goad it out of him.

“Yes, there is,” Sabellian said with a loud scoff. “Our race’s corruption came from within the earth. To so blindly delve into trusting the ground beneath and around you is to invite the same fate that befell my father when he dug too deep.”

“Now that’s being paranoid,” Wrathion remarked. “The earth – Azeroth - is _wonderful_ , Sabellian – I mean, sure, you’re scared of it for some silly personal reasons, but you have no _idea_ what you’re missing!” He went to spread out his hands and forgot his cuffs again, and stopped just before they pulled. “It’s remarkable. There’s life _everywhere_!”

“I am sure there is,” Sabellian growled, and Wrathion did not miss the tone of bitterness. “But I would rather be cautious than become a monster again because I felt the childish need to move _rock.”_

“Oh, it’s more than just _that,”_ Wrathion said. “I’m sure you can _feel_ it, though,” he goaded further. “Everything humming around you. So much… _power_ at your fingertips -”

“Stop.” Sabellian glared at him warningly. “You may be an inexperienced fool with enough naivete to believe the earth is your great _friend_ , and you may risk your life because of it, but do not speak to me about the ground below your feet being some ally at your disposal when you know little of what lurks beneath it.”

Wrathion huffed and sank back into the wall behind him. Sabellian didn’t understand.

Oh, well. Let him remain scared and paranoid of a thing that black dragons once ruled over. Wrathion hummed once to himself then looked at the closed archway. It was his loss, anyway.

Though Wrathion remembered the cuffs, and grew suddenly frustrated again. He’d been so close… maybe he could try again.

… Then again, it was becoming increasingly obvious Wrathion couldn’t do this by himself. He snuck a glance at Sabellian, and the elder dragon glared at him.

“I have an idea,” Wrathion started.

“What a claim,” Sabellian said, and it was Wrathion’s turn to glare. He forced it off of his face.

“Now, wait. Don’t jump to any conclusions,” Wrathion continued. It was difficult to keep his annoyance out of his voice, but he didn’t want to accidentally rile Sabellian further. “ _You_ can’t get out of here with those unfortunate wounds of yours, and _I_ can’t get out of here because I have no idea how to work that doorway.” He nodded his head to the closed-off entrance. He had _some_ idea, sure, but…

“And?”

“Let’s work _together_ to get out of here, and once we’re free, we can continue trying to kill each other.” Wrathion grinned brilliantly.

Sabellian stared, eyes lidded darkly.

“No,” the elder dragon replied, and Wrathion’s smile dropped so quickly someone may as well have slapped it off his face.

“Oh, come on!” Wrathion complained. “You don’t have any other options, Sabellian.”

“You will try to kill me the moment you’re free,” Sabellian explained, his voice a rumble.

“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“- Even if I am still cuffed and we are still below the earth,” Sabellian continued, glaring.

“Alright. I’ll clarify.” Wrathion pointed upwards. “Once both our cuffs are broken, and we are both out of this loathsome tree, _then_ we can _fairly_ kill one another. Agreed?”

Sabellian squinted. He flexed his uninjured hand.

“Fine,” the elder dragon relented, after a long period of silence. “But I do not trust you, and if you make any move against me, I will not hesitate in killing you.”

“Fine, fine, alright,” Wrathion said, waving his fingers dismissively. He did not trust Sabellian, either, of course – he would have to be extremely careful, lest he turn his back on the other dragon and find the end of Sabellian’s staff through his spine.

But such dramatics could be dealt with later.

Now they needed to get out.

“So. Excellent! How are we getting out of here?”

“I don’t know,” Sabellian said.

Wrathion stared.

“You have to have some idea,” Wrathion argued, disbelieving.

“The doorway is clearly activated by the mantid’s call. I’m unsure if it can even be dug through, or… manipulated against.” Sabellian gave Wrathion a sharp look. “These creatures are smarter than their primal forms suggest.”

“Well, obviously.”

“I will not allow you to use your earth manipulation around me,” Sabellian continued. “So do not think about it in any schemes you’re plotting.”

“Nothing’s stopping me, you know,” Wrathion quipped, smiling. He reached out with his mind and moved a black fist-sized rock near Sabellian’s feet closer to the elder dragon, and Sabellian’s glare became poisonous.

“Do you want my help, whelp, or are you going to act your age?”

Wrathion huffed. He stopped moving the rock.

“The mantid will be coming soon,” Sabellian said. “I doubt the brewing of such an alchemical potion will take any longer.”

Wrathion said nothing.

“We cannot get out of this room on our own,” the other dragon continued. “We have to allow the mantid to take us both.”

“That’s an awful idea. Why can’t you just shift into dragon form?”

“That is the third time you’ve asked me that,” Sabellian growled. “I _cannot._ And even if I could, I cannot fit inside this place.”

Wrathion sighed. He slumped back against the wall, and the roots and rock were bumpy against his back.

“I will figure out the rest. We have enough time,” Sabellian said.

Wrathion rolled his eyes. The old dragon probably had no idea, and he was stalling.

“Do you really think I’m just going to blindly trust you with whatever plan you’re hatching?” Wrathion complained.

“No. But you would do well to try,” Sabellian growled. “I may not be your little prince rescuer, but you will have to make do.”

“This has to be something of a joint operation,” Wrathion grumbled. “Not you ordering me around – and who is the little prince-?…” Wrathion squinted. “Prince Anduin?” He huffed, rolling his shoulders back. “I can survive _just_ fine without -”

Oh – wait. Prince Anduin. His mind’s eye flickered. Had he made it to the Vale? How long had they been down here?

If they were close enough…

Wrathion grabbed hold of the blond’s gem immediately. He grinned with an open slyness at Sabellian.

“You know, you bring up an outstandingly excellent point! You work on… whatever you were working on. Give me one moment.”

He closed his eyes, connected with Anduin’s gem, and left the cave behind.

—-

Anduin was making his way back up to his room when he realized too late there was little way out of the Shrine and out to see the destruction of the Vale with his guards trailing behind him.

His step faltered. He’d begun to walk up the second flight of stairs to go back to his room for a quick rest (his leg was hurting horribly) when Anduin realized the obvious hurdle of his bodyguards.

“Is something wrong?” The woman guard asked, and Anduin paused.

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind.” Anduin turned, smiled brilliantly, and moved back down the two steps he’d walked up. The guards looked at him, their puzzled expressions clear behind the thick slots in their helmets.

“Your father wanted you to rest, prince,” said the other guard as Anduin began to walk back the way he’d come: the portal room. The guards clattered behind him.

Anduin smiled at a night elf who grinned at him as she moved passed, a white tiger loping at her side. A group of two draenei, paladins, by the look of their golden armor, shimmered out from the portal from Outland to the right of the room. The duo gave him quick nods.

It was the afternoon, and the crowd was picking up – and people were noticing Anduin.

It wouldn’t have bothered him if he had not wanted to sneak away.

Anduin stopped in the center of the room. Getting out of the Shrine would have been fine – the guards wouldn’t argue with that. But getting close to the dig site? They would never agree.

And Anduin _needed_ to see it up close. He wasn’t about to stand up top to look down at it like it was some creature behind a glass, out of mind and out of consequence.

His guards had caught up with him. Anduin squinted in concentration. Maybe… an idea sparked. He smiled, pleased. It was a bit mundane, but maybe it might get the job done – and the ever-thickening crowd was a great asset.

“I’d like to go to The Golden Latern,” Anduin announced, loud enough above the din so that his guards could hear him. “I haven’t seen Matron Vi Vinh in a long time, and I’m very starving.”

The guards nodded. Anduin smiled at them boyishly and started to walk again. The Alliance in the portal room, though few, moved aside to give him more than ample room to walk.

He kept his back straight and his head high, and smiled to everyone who caught his eye. Almost all of them smiled back.

The walk was a quick one: passed the ethereals’ room, through the open, sloping pathway that rounded around the great mogu statue in the back of the Shrine, and back up into the second floor of the right side of the building where the bankers worked.

This room was much more crowded. A long line – multiple lines, actually, one for each bank, Anduin noticed – snaked around the room. Anduin had to be careful to move through the crowd, and apologized when he bumped into anyone – but those who he did quickly realized who he was, and apologized in his stead, sometimes so profusely and so stutteringly that Anduin felt a bit nervous for it.

“How’s that dragon, Prince Anduin?” Someone in one of the lines called.

Anduin paused. He was nearly at the opposite side of the room, near the exit archway.

People, those who clearly hadn’t noticed Anduin before in the crowd, turned their heads. Anduin gave a tired smile, but tried to search for the person who had spoken. From the unaccented sound of their voice, he assumed it was a human.

“Still being buddy-buddy with that lying sack of scales?” Continued the voice. “Proclaiming peace and love?”

Anduin saw him. He was on the other end of the room, standing at the back of the line: a male human with a long black ponytail and an eyepatch over his left eye, covered with brown leather.

He was agitating some in the crowd; from the corner of his eye the prince could see feet shifting, shoulders rolling, eyes glancing to each other.

Anduin did not break eye contact with the man.

“Yes,” Anduin said, and his voice was loud enough where the others could hear him. He remembered what Madam Goya had said – how rumors had spread – and he wondered about what the man was referring to. “And I would hope, sir, that you don’t believe everything you hear. I may, at times, be called naïve, but even I know that advice.”

His voice was a quiet calm, and before the man could retort, he smiled a charming smile that was a _bit_ too tight across his face, turned, and moved away. The room was soon behind him.

Anduin took a deep breath. He forced his shoulders to relax; his warning smile dropped.

A small red cloud serpent hatchling swept up in front of his face. Anduin startled, but smiled.

“Hello,” he said in passing. The serpent bopped one of his ears with the end of its furred tail before slipping away to rest atop the large mahogany bookcase; a a group of silent jinyu crowded around it, their finned, scaled hands full of scrolls. They paid Anduin no heed.

This was the room Anduin had _really_ wanted – not the Golden Lantern, though the restaurant and inn was just downstairs. Anduin slowed his walk. The room smelled of paper and the scaly smell of serpent -

-… And leather and steel and the sharp smells of dyes, but these came from the balcony to the right. Anduin glanced over at it. Hanging over the lower entranceway of the Shrine, the marble-floored balcony hosted a magnificent display of gear: heavily decorated robes, lavishly accented leathers, and painstakingly crafted suits of armor. Their colors were bright and beautiful.

Anduin eyed the robe of silver, carmine and navy. Its shoulderpads were arced, wing-like appendages that looked too heavy for even the strongest mage or priest to wear – but it was the heavy hood, decorated with the same silver metal and boasting a thick blue side cover that would hide most of the wearer’s face that caught Anduin’s attention.

The only problem was that a pandaren, the merchant, was standing in front of it.

Smiling, Anduin turned to his guards.

“Can you please get me some food?” He nodded his head down at the stairs. “I would walk down myself, but my leg is really beginning to ache.”

It wasn’t a lie. His leg really was beginning to cramp from all the walking, and the stairway might as well have been a pathway of hot coals underfoot to Anduin.

One of the guards nodded wordlessly and began to move away – but Anduin needed both of them to leave. Thinking quickly, he said:

“And, Melissa, can you -” he fumbled for words “- go send word to my father that I’d like to meet with him as soon as he’s able?”

That wasn’t a lie, either, but he withheld a wince as the words left his mouth. If Varian was free right now, and came back with his son gone _again_ -

Melissa, the guard, paused. Her partner was already down the stairs.

“I’m sure that can wait, Prince Anduin,” she said warily.

“Please?”

Anduin smiled at her so wide that it was edging on ridiculous, but the guard relented, her shoulders slouching with a loud clanking of metal.

“Oh, gosh. Okay. Okay. Don’t look at me like that, I think my heart might melt,” the guard said quickly. She hesitated, then gave Anduin a pointed look. “… But when you sneak off, don’t get in too much trouble, okay? I can see right through you, prince. Maybe not Edward, but I can.”

Anduin bit his lip before replying. “Okay,” he repeated, and the guard nodded before heading down the stairs.

The guards were gone. Step one. Step two was to get one of the hoods from the merchant.

Anduin sighed, turned and started towards the balcony. It was not very crowded: only two or three Alliance heroes were standing around inspecting the wears, and in their hands or around their necks looped golden tokens on a long black ribbon.

“Excuse me, sir,” Anduin began, catching the attention of the pandaren merchant, a squat warrior wearing dark green gear to hide the majority of his black-and-white fur, “how much would only the hood of the navy robe be?”

“Not for sale for gold,” the pandaren replied gruffly. He grabbed one of the golden tokens from the neck of one of the champions, a startled-looking human, and held it up. “These.”

“Oh. Where do you get those?”

“Maybe in twenty years you come back after you’ve grown and we can talk about it.”

Anduin pursed his lips. He glanced at the robe, then at the merchant again.

He supposed he _could_ get out of the Vale without some kind of cloak to hide his face and royal regalia… but the moment anyone saw him sneaking out to the dig site on the wide open golden plains of the Vale, he’d be stopped immediately for his safety.

No. Anduin really needed that robe.

He smiled at the merchant, and said: “I apologize, I didn’t know. Maybe -”

“Soong,” came a dark, gravelled voice from the corner of the balcony. Anduin glanced over, as did the merchant, whose black ears had gone flat against his skull. “Allow the boy a simple gift.”

There where the balcony met the second floor stood a pandaren in dark red and blue leather; he wore a worn bamboo hat, whose string was wrapped so tight around his white chin the fur puckered there. One paw was at his hip, on the hilt of some unseen weapon - the other was pointing to the robe.

“These can’t be simple gifts,” Soong complained, though his voice had grown shaky. “That’s against policy.”

“It is good, then, that we are not followers of policy.” The pandaren gestured to the robe again. “Go on.”

Soong paused enough to make the other pandaren tighten his hold on the hidden weapon.

The merchant huffed. He glanced at Anduin with a new surprise to his brown eyes.

“Take it. I don’t care,” Soong said.

Anduin glanced between the two pandaren. “I- no, I couldn’t possibly just take it for free, and not under duress -”

“A gift from Madam Goya, Prince Anduin,” the hatted pandaren explained. “Do not worry about the circumstances.” Again he motioned to the robe. “She would like to speak to you again tomorrow night. Do your best to remember.”

Anduin stared. A little kernel of annoyed anger lit deep in his chest, but he forced it down into a dullness.

The pandaren had come from nowhere – Madam Goya had had him followed.

“Of course,” Anduin said as diplomatically as he possibly could. “Thank you.”

The pandaren said nothing, and Anduin looked away. Under his breath to Soong, he murmured, “I know this is against… policy, but I will, at least, send you gold – and I will return it.”

Soong waved his hand at the robe. He wasn’t looking at Anduin – only at the Black Market guard.

Anduin moved away. Strangely, all three of the Alliance who had been on the balcony had vanished without him even realizing it, and he wondered if it had to do with Madam Goya’s guard.

He sighed, grabbed the hood and cloak off of the standing wooden mannequin, and slid them over his royal outfit. The hood was surprisingly light against his face, but covered his golden hair and shadowed his features, and the cloak that was connected to it was thin but made of durable silk cloth; Anduin wrapped it around himself and clasped it at the front.

“Thank you,” he said again to Soong. Soong nodded wordlessly, and Anduin noticed the other pandaren had gone.

Anduin sighed and, awkwardly, slid over the bannister of the balcony. The Light bloomed into his chest, down his waist, into his feet, and below his heels, and, quickly, he levitated down to the first floor.

No one even looked at him as he landed. Maybe it was a common occurrence. All the same, Anduin readjusted the hood over his face, glanced around to check for any white flashings of the Stormwind guard, and, seeing none, made his way out the crowded Shrine.

Anduin kept his head bent - and even with the hood, the early afternoon sun shined so harshly into his eyes as he stepped through the archway that Anduin winced and looked down. He nearly tripped over his feet in the process and stopped himself an inch short from running into a night elf that was walking back into the building.

Anduin went to murmur a quick sorry, but the night elf was gone. He sighed and stopped just outside the golden archway, free at last from the Shrine’s interior.

Even outside, it was no less busy. Countless people in armor and clothing of all colors and materials, shoulders of wolves, of eagles, capes of gold and blue and rainbow, walked back and forth, some in line to catch a pandaren kite and others slipping back into the Shrine, and some were busy mounting their own personal beasts and lifting off from the platform to wheel up into the sky.

Conversation was a dull roar, and when Anduin, satisfied that the crowd was thick enough where he wouldn’t be picked out in the throng, started to move forward and slip into the activity, heard more than one snippet of conversation:

“Did you hear about Razor Hill? Ghastly thing.”

“I’ve been down to the Barrens, mate. No, I’m serious. Even saw Chen Stormstout gettin’ buddy-buddy with Vol’jin. Where’s the Alliance, eh? While they’re drinkin’ away we’re just fuelin’ their revolution and get sent out like chore-dogs for lumber and that shit. Seems lopsided, I swear it.”

“I can’t believe what they did to the Vale. Did you see Taran Zhu come in a couple hours ago?”

There was more, but all of it muddled into a dull roar.

Anduin kept his head down. He scrunched his brows together. Even without listening, he could feel the tension of the crowd as he moved through and around it: there was an air of static like an unleashed storm, and it hovered against the back of his neck. He had little reason to think it was fault to anything other than the quickly-approaching siege against Orgrimmar and the revolution now in the Barrens.

Quickly and quietly, Anduin made it to the end of the platform, and to his left branched the circled patio where small carts were tended to by smiling pandaren. A Jinyu was striking up a conversation with the cloud serpent rider, whose jade dragon was curled around the bannister. The sun was bright and hot, but the wind was just cool enough, smelling of honey and vanilla and cherry blossoms, that the heat was not overwhelming.

Anduin stopped before the curling stairs. The Vale stretched out in front of him, a paradise in gold. The ocher trees, as always, were in a full, shining bloom, and the lakes were ashine with a glowing sort of inward, crystalline light; far off to the west, Anduin could just make out the hazy forms of the stone giants, who stood immovable, untouchable – the grim guardians of the timeless Vale.

And among the undisturbed gold, Anduin was able to pick out the destruction immediately, and his throat went tight.

Just ahead, to the west, was the dig site. Where one of the blessed lakes had been was now a sunken hole, a brown-black scar against the yellows of the Vale. Ugly clumps of dirt lay upheaved and upturned on the rim of the deep pit, where it sloped down so steeply that Anduin couldn’t see the bottom. Machines of both goblin and orcish origin, steel and red-painted timber, respectively, were blocking his view, too, stacked next to each other like a wall of war. Their metal spikes glinted.

Anduin’s grip on his cane grew so tight his palm became numb, and, for a moment, his eyes flickered hot with anger and a wetness threatened the corners of his eyes.

He took a deep breath, swallowing and blinking hard. Calm, Anduin told himself. Being senselessly angry wouldn’t help, even though there was a dull buzzing in the back of his head that made him grind his teeth together. His eyes grew softer, but there was a new, sharpened hardness there not present before.

He needed to see the rest – with his viewpoint, he could see little, and if they had managed to actually _drain_ the entire lake that had sat peacefully to the west of the Shrine, Anduin knew that this destruction, as small as it was in comparison to the rest of the sloping, untouched Vale, was only the tip.

But despite _wanting_ to see more, Anduin began to feel strangely numb. He couldn’t move, nor could he look away from the pit. In place of his sudden anger was a faraway muted feeling he couldn’t quite place, and he realized he’d felt it once or twice before – the most recent being when he had woken up from the Divine Bell.

Seeing the Vale destroyed, even as small as this, was simply… revolting. Unbelievable. Anduin swallowed. He tried to look away again, and found still he could not. How could this possibly -

A sudden, searing heat at his thigh snapped Anduin from his stupor. He jumped, withholding a surprised yelp, and nearly lost his balance as he instinctually smacked his hand near where the pain was – but the heat disappeared as quickly as it had come, only leaving behind a tickle of pain at his skin.

Anduin frowned, perturbed. He rubbed at his thigh. Maybe something had bitten him, or a muscle had seized.

It was gone, now, at least. Anduin glanced around. No one was looking at him. He smiled to himself. With the cloak, he might as well have been any other hero on the platform and not their prince. The idea was oddly liberating.

Quickly, Anduin started down the stairs, no longer in the faraway stupor. His smile was gone, though: his eyes were trained on the pit. From his right, the jade serpent on the bannister eyed him coolly.

The digging was so close! Anduin thought, as he made it to the bottom, swerving around a pair of Tushui pandaren to inch his way closer to the dig site. As usual, there was a steady stream of travelers coming up and leaving through the small, foot-worn road in the grass that led out to the Gate, and Anduin was quick to join the throng, well-knowing that if he made a bee-line for the dig site that he would be picked out immediately.

How had the Horde snuck up so close to the Alliance’s designated shrine and set up shop so easily? Anduin frowned. This wasn’t making sense. How could Garrosh had gotten away with digging into the Heart of the Vale and destroying one of its lakes, things untouched for centuries? There was the Golden Lotus to consider, too. What were they doing in all of this?

There was Taran Zhu, though. The golden grass was soft underneath Anduin’s leather boots, and, now at a distance from the Shrine, the crowd was thinning. He was only one of the few on foot, and others strode passed him on their mounts – horses, nightsabers, even a raptor and a blue drake, which caught Anduin by surprise – but they kept their distance from the dig site, swerving around at a wide arc that Anduin did not follow.

Yes, Taran Zhu had given the ultimatum, Anduin recalled, thinking in on what he had overheard so recently at the Shrine of Seven Stars. But even then, Anduin wasn’t sure why the Shado-pan leader, known for his aggression, hadn’t simply attacked the Horde outright – surely Anduin was _happy_ that Taran Zhu hadn’t turned to violence as quickly, but still…

Anduin sighed. Maybe Taran Zhu, too, had told the Golden Lotus to stay their hand.

For now, at least.

Anduin was nearly there. Slowly, keeping his grip on his cane tight, he slipped out from the small line of travelers. No one took note, or even turned their heads.

He hesitated. From up top he hadn’t seen any Horde along the side of the dig site, and even now he saw none. Maybe they were deeper beneath the slope where he couldn’t see; either way, Anduin was a bit grateful he could sneak up easily without detection, though he would still be careful. It wasn’t like the Horde to keep their territories unstaked and unguarded.

A minute more, and he was upon the dig site.

The smell hit him, first. Replacing the warm honey-like smell of the Vale was the scent of fresh-turned earth -… and while this may, alone, have been a pleasing thing, it was the scent of burning oil, hot steel, and a smell Anduin couldn’t quite place – a kind of moldy sort of rotting - mixed into it that made it vile. Anduin had to choke back a sudden gag; he grabbed the baggy collar of his hood and swept it over the lower half of his face.

“You think that’s really what’s down there?”

Anduin’s eyes widened. Quickly, he ducked behind one of the abandoned goblin diggers, whose claws were dried with mud.

“I think it’s a load of garbage,” came a different voice. Anduin held his breath as footsteps crunched beyond the machine. So much for lacking guards.

“I dunno, man. I just came back up from there. Gives me the creeps.”

They were goblins, judging solely on their voices. Anduin bit his cheek. Maybe he could just take a quick look and be gone within the minute. It’d be less study than he’d wanted, but he would, at the very least, get to the see just how deep the Horde had dug – and he did not want to get into more trouble, either.

Anduin’s vision blurred. He frowned and rubbed at his eyes, but the sudden loss of clarity disappeared, and his vision sharpened. The smell must have been getting to him.

“Don’t be such a wuss,” the other goblin huffed. Anduin could see their shadows yawn out beyond the front of the machine.

\- _Anduin Wrynn_! -

Anduin jumped so hard he nearly smashed his head into the goblin shredder.

He grabbed onto one of the claws of the machine in a desperate attempt to keep his balance as he lost his grip on his cane, which fell upon the grass without so much as a clang. Anduin looked around wildly, but found no source of the voice – a voice he knew too well. Not relaxing, he whispered, his voice low and hoarse:

“ _Wrathion_?”

\- _As clever as always, Prince Anduin._ \- Came the Black Prince’s cooing voice, and it surrounded Anduin on all sides in a fluid echo.

“Where – where are you?” Anduin whispered, looking around again. He was alone amongst the machines, save for the goblins.

\- _I take my statement back. -_ Wrathion sighed. - _Don’t you remember the lovely little gift I gave you? -_

Anduin felt foolish. Of course – the gem. Sighing quietly, he relaxed, slipping his grip off of the shredder and kneeling to grab his cane. He did not take his eyes off of the goblin shadows, which had not moved. They hadn’t heard him – right?

“What do you want?” Anduin murmured. “This is a really bad time.”

\- _An unwelcoming comment, Prince Anduin. Remarkably rude. And_ y _ou don’t_ _ **have**_ _to speak aloud, you know. -_ Wrathion reprimanded, sounding for all the world a teacher scolding a dull-witted student.

Anduin hesitated. What, he was just supposed to… _think,_ and Wrathion would hear him?

\- _Yes_! _That’s the point._ -

“You can hear everything I’m thinking?!” Anduin whispered, alarmed, and quickly tried to block out any thoughts of what he’d heard at the Alliance meeting, something Wrathion would be all too interested in – and while Anduin trusted the Black Prince, he did not exactly trust Wrathion with information like that.

Wrathion didn’t seem to pick up on it. He only laughed a quick, amused _ha_. - _More or less. -_ Anduin could already see the dragon smirking, and he rolled his eyes.

 _Are you joking, or are you being serious?_ Anduin thought, his words a bit muddled. It was odd, communicating like this. Even as concentrated as he was, other thoughts not concerning their conversation threatened to flash against Anduin’s mind’s eye, and it took every ounce of focus to keep them back so Wrathion would not hear or see them. How did the Blacktalons manage to do this?-… or did they at all?

\- _I don’t know. What do you think? -_

Anduin shook his head. The goblins were moving backwards; he wasn’t sure if he had missed something they had said. He sighed quietly. Probably. At least, though, they were moving away.

\- _Now that the pleasantries are out of the way… I have a small problem I was hoping… -_ Wrathion hesitated. - _Where_ _ **are**_ _you? This looks dreadful. -_

 _The Vale._ Anduin carefully went to lean around the machine to see down into the pit, but one of the goblins laughed and Anduin tore back. They were still close – better to wait them out.

\- _**Oh.**_ _-_ Wrathion paused. - _I knew that. -_

_Right._

A snarling shout made Anduin jolt.

“ _HEY_! You two! Get down here! We need more excavators!”

It came from below the pit, and the goblins gave two equally startled yelps.

“Man,” one of the goblins mumbled, and the sound of their feet crunching on the broken dirt and debris began to fade into distance, “why can’t the orcs do this crap?”

“’Cause they’re too busy sucking up to Malkorok,” the other said in a conspiratorial whisper, and the two gave a gnarled, nasally pair of laughs. They soon went out of earshot.

Anduin let loose the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

\- _Why, Anduin Wrynn, -_ smoothed in Wrathion’s voice. - _Have you snuck out to the dig site? -_

Before Anduin had the chance to defend himself – all he really managed to think was a series of fumbled, annoyed noises, like white-static – Wrathion continued, sounding wildly bemused.

\- _You_ _ **have**_ **.** _Color me… unsurprised. You have a talent for getting into trouble, dear prince. -_

 _So do you_ , Anduin retorted, bristling. He was beginning to regret the gem.

\- _I doubt such regret very much. -_

Anduin glared. _Stop listening to everything._

_\- That’s a bit impossible. My sincerest apologies. -_

Anduin ground his teeth. He leaned the majority of his weight on the cane, and, ignoring Wrathion, turned to peek around the machine.

It was not as steep as he’d initially thought. A handful of feet down was carved the ugly brown slope, which quickly broadened and swept out to come to rest at the edges of the northern mountains. There, to the northeast, was the highest carved-through cliff: a rock face yards high where the lake had once rested. A heavily-armed red tent, surrounded by thick spikes and sealed boxes stacked haphazardly by the entrance, lay nestled near it, and large metal cranes with wooden platforms containing a jarring mix of both tools of the dig – pickaxes, shovels, dynamite, even weapons – and mud-crusted artifacts were stationed around the interior. And, almost everywhere, the black and red of the Horde flag hung dully, a blood stain upon the brown earth.

Anduin looked at it all. From above it hadn’t looked as bad as it did down here, now that he could see passed the barriers and at the whole of the devastation. Anduin didn’t even recall the mogu _invasion_ doing so much damage; the combined efforts of the Golden Lotus, the Horde and the Alliance, and the blessings of the Celestials had prevented it.

He rubbed at one of his eyes as his throat tightened sourly.

\- _Don’t fret, Anduin. -_ Wrathion said, and Anduin swallowed, his eyes growing hard. He’d forgotten Wrathion was there, the Black Prince had been so quiet. - _It was only a single lake. Be thankful Garrosh hasn’t stomped around looking for more, hm? -_

“That isn’t the point,” Anduin argued, not trusting his own thoughts anymore, lest Wrathion would see all of his balled up anger and revulsion in the scatterings against his mind. His voice low, with a vague shake, he said: “This is the Vale of Eternal Blossoms. It’s sacred. They can’t just… destroy it!”

\- _But they did. -_ Wrathion replied, and his voice oozed self-knowledge, the tone he adopted when he was about to launch into an indulgent lecture. - _Just because it’s a sacred place doesn’t mean it has some sort of heavenly immunity. Nothing is untouchable, Prince Anduin. Everything and…_ _ **anyone**_ _can be destroyed: kings, warchiefs, sacred spaces… princes. I’m surprised you lack that knowledge. -_ Wrathion made a disappointed sigh, and Anduin glared down at the pit. - _Why, look at Theramor-… -_

“Don’t, Wrathion,” Anduin warned. “That wasn’t the point I was trying to make.”

He said nothing else; there was enough venom in his voice, fueled by his anger at the Vale, to let Wrathion know that the dragon was overstepping his line. Banter was one thing: their clashes in ideologies was another, too bitter a barrier to ever settle peacefully.

Wrathion started to say something, but Anduin managed to tune him out so that his voice was a dull mumbling. There was a commotion that had caught Anduin’s attention down below, near the northern mountain wall. A congregation of Horde – goblins, mostly, with a scattering of heavily-armored orcs – stumbled out from a large mine entrance embedded into the cliff wall that Anduin only just now noticed.

“I ain’t going back in there!” A goblin, covered head to foot with soot, was yelling to one of the orcs as a dust cloud rolled out from the mine’s entrance.

Anduin had to strain his eyes to see the orc’s face – he was quite a-ways away. The orc was scowling, but, he, too, was dirtied with mud, and stone crumbled from his red pauldrons.

The orc said something to the goblin, but Anduin couldn’t hear him. With the fearsome, toothy scowl on his face, though, Anduin had a feeling it was not anything kind.

The goblin gestured to the mine and said something else. The orc grabbed the axe at his back; the goblin jerked back, his arms raising up defensively. The other miners watched warily, shying away from the smoking entrance where other orcs stood guard, and even from his distance Anduin could see the fear in the hunching of the miners’ shoulders and the drooping of their ears.

This was the second time in ten minutes that Anduin had heard – and seen – the goblins’ fear. What was Garrosh looking for down there?

The smoke coming from the mine, a grey-brown, thick bodied puff of dirt debris – maybe from some sort of inward collapse or explosion – was thinning, spreading out across the site and was dispersed quickly by the northern wind. The orcs began to usher the miners back inside.

\- _I worry to think of what hidden wonders Garrosh has found now. -_ Wrathion said, managing to muscle through Anduin’s mental barriers. The Black Prince did not sound worried – instead he sounded unapologetically enthused.

Anduin ignored him. How Wrathion could be so excited about things found in part due to the destruction of this sacred space, he had little idea.

\- _I can see the positives of consequence, prince. -_ Wrathion explained, his voice a gloat. - _Sure. It’s rather unfortunate about the lake. Yet think of all the outstanding secrets beneat… -_

A gust of wind, the same that had brushed the smoke from the mine outward, passed Anduin, and the smell, the strange, rotting, moldy scent he had picked up before, amplified; the hairs on the back of his neck and forearms rose.

A terrible sense of wrongness was the first to sweep through him – a sense right deep in his core, and it made a swell of nausea lift at his stomach. He inhaled sharply, and he heard Wrathion do the same.

And then came the assault of feeling. But they were not kind feelings – they were instead hate and anger, anger at Garrosh, anger at the destruction, and the sour, hot feeling of _hate_ at the unjustness of it all – and the feeling felt so alien to Anduin that he grew quickly afraid until he was paralyzed by it. Every inch of him shook inwardly, but he did not move; he stood transfixed, his mind warped, his breath stilled, as the emotions and smell overtook him.

\- But the onslaught faded as the wind moved passed him, and left behind a bone-deep exhaustion. Anduin slouched, ducking back behind the shredder, and gasped for air. His stomach churned and clenched, and he withheld the urge to vomit. Sweat beaded his forehead.

The ordeal couldn’t have been longer than five seconds, but Anduin felt it had been hours.

He scrunched his eyes closed, a bead of sweat pooling at his fine eyelashes. He was beginning to calm when a conscious mix of disgust, intrigue, and a touch of fear warbled at his temple.

These feelings were not his own. Anduin groaned, dizzy. He could feel and hear Wrathion’s emotions, too? Why hadn’t he been able to before? The effect was disorienting: Wrathion’s feelings overlapped and settled over Anduin’s, like a living, overwhelming shield.

\- _How interesting._ \- Came Wrathion’s forced reply. It sounded warped, far away. Anduin was unsure why; perhaps the Black Prince had lost concentration during the episode.

“Did you feel that, too?”

\- _Yes. Through you, unfortunately. -_

“How -” Anduin paused. He’d forgotten Wrathion could see through the gem, too… and Wrathion had said just earlier how the dig-site had _looked_ 'dreadful.' He sighed. Why hadn't he picked up on that earlier?

But the gem was in his pocket, not on his head -

\- _I used your blood to make the gem, Anduin Wrynn. I can see through both it and your own eyes – where there’s a healthy amount of blood to manipulate. -_ He made an amused sound. _\- Why do you think I have so little Forsaken Blacktalons? -_

That was a bit creepy. Anduin frowned, shook his head, and, carefully, stood upright. His nausea was gone, and so was the sudden weakness – and Wrathion, too, had masked his own emotions, which no longer pummeled into Anduin’s own.

“That came from the mine,” Anduin whispered. He glanced around the shredder to eye the entrance, now guarded by an impressive line of Kor’kron. A black worg ate a white feathered crane, native to the Vale, off to the side. “How could something so dark come from the Vale?”

\- _I… oh. -_ He paused. For a moment Anduin felt Wrathion grow nervous. - _You know …-_

Wrathion cut off. A flash of the dragon’s surprise – and fear – beat once against Anduin’s forehead and chest, and then disappeared.

“Wrathion?”

There was no answer. Anduin frowned and waited, but nothing came.

Careful to keep his weight on his cane, Anduin slipped his free hand into his pocket, and his fingers brushed against the smooth gem. It was cold.

That was odd. Anduin tilted his head and took his hand away. Maybe something else had caught Wrathion’s attention, but -

A hand grabbed Anduin’s shoulder from behind.

Anduin jumped. He twirled around, one of his hands flickering with a white, defensive spell.

The grip loosened. Anduin looked up.

The foreboding figure of Taran Zhu squinted back at him, his back to the sun and his slim bamboo hat casting a dark shadow across his yellowed eyes.

“Taran Zhu,” Anduin breathed, alarmed, relieved, and embarrassed all in one. The Light in his hand snuffed out.

The leader of the Shado-pan let go of Anduin’s shoulder. He studied Anduin for a moment before, his black brows bunched together in a critical look, before huffing.

Up close, Taran Zhu was much more of an impressive presence, and one that made itself known in the strength of his open-shouldered stance and the offensive tilt of his head; he seemed even taller than Baine Bloodhoof, though Anduin knew he wasn’t.

It was this aura of both defense and offense, of this coiled, dark strength, that marked him for who he was; his dark red and blue gear was only an added flair.

“Anduin Wrynn,” Taran Zhu greeted gruffly. “What are you doing here?”

Anduin hesitated. He had never talked, or even been this close to, the legendary pandaren, and being caught being somewhere he shouldn’t be like a skulking child was not the way he’d wanted to meet him.

“I wanted to see the destruction for myself,” Anduin admitted. “I’m at a loss for words.”

Taran Zhu glanced up. He looked out at the dig site, and the only expression that Anduin could read on the pandaren’s face was a deep-set anger than crinkled at the corners of his eyes.

“As are we all,” Taran Zhu grumbled. He looked back at Anduin, his eyes aglow. “You are too close to the dig site. You were lucky those animals did not find you.” His words were not ones that showed thankfulness for Anduin’s safety, but instead possessed an accusatory tone, one of aggravation.

Anduin only stared back. While Taran Zhu was altogether a fearsome presence, he found himself unafraid of the commander, as some were – only a bit wary.

“I was just going,” Anduin explained. He paused, and continued quickly before Taran Zhu had the chance to move away or interrupt him. “I heard about the ultimatum,” Anduin said. He relaxed his grip on the cane once he realized he was clinging onto it so hard his knuckles had turned white. “What if they don’t leave?”

Taran Zhu huffed a breath deep in his thick-bodied chest.

“We will deal with that when the time comes,” the pandaren answered. “I will make sure of that.”

Anduin nodded. He looked back behind his shoulder where the Kor’kron stood in front of the entrance.

_We will deal with that when the time comes._

Taran Zhu knew they weren’t going to leave – just as Anduin, knew, too. He just hoped the oncoming struggle wouldn’t damage the Vale further.

Sighing, Anduin turned to look back up at the commander of the Shado-pan. “If there’s anything I can do to help, please, let me know.”

“You’ve done enough already,” Taran Zhu grumbled. “I doubt we’ll need you.”

“Either way, I’ll be of assistance in any way I can,” Anduin said. “And – thank for the Shado-pan’s assistance in Townlong.”

Taran Zhu stared at him.

“I will not be glad if that creature your father did not kill makes more mayhem the Shado-pan cannot stop,” the pandaren said flatly. “Now go. You’ve caused enough trouble as is.”

Anduin nodded. “Please remember my offer,” he said earnestly.

Taran Zhu studied him. Something unreadable shifted in the corner of his eyes, but Anduin did not have time to read the pandaren’s expression; the commander moved to the side to allow Anduin to move passed, and the two Shado-pan behind did the same.

“Be wary, Anduin Wrynn,” Taran Zhu grumbled, and he no longer sounded angry. He sounded sincere, and the shift caught Anduin’s attention.

Anduin looked up at the Shado-pan. Slowly, he nodded, his jaw set.

“You, too.”

Taran Zhu said nothing. Anduin took one last glance at the dig site, and began his lonesome walk back to the Shrine.

—-

Wrathion was ripped from his concentration when the doorway swung open, bits of its dirt flicking onto the side of his face.

He jolted and snapped his eyes open; the Vale and Anduin Wrynn spun away from him in an instant, and again he was back in the dark cave. His head pounded at the sudden shift, and he,scrunched his eyes closed for a moment until he remembered that the door had opened.

Wrathion glanced over, pulling himself up. Fear and alarm beat in his throat; three mantid stood side by side in the open archway, and the roots that had blocked the hallway off slithered deep into the sides of the earth as Wrathion watched.

“Follow,” the shortest mantid said.

Wrathion glanced at Sabellian. The elder dragon was looking at the mantid threesome, and did not move.

Did he come up with some sort of plan? Wrathion grimaced as the mantid grew impatient at their silence and strode over, forcing him to his feet by grabbing him up by the collar of his scaled tabard, like he was nothing more than a puppy to be picked up by the scruff. Wrathion glared, but the mantid said nothing, only slipped behind him and goaded him forward with a push of its cold, hard claw.

Sabellian stood before the other mantid could do the same to him, though Wrathion noticed the harsh shake in the dragon’s legs as he straightened up and how much he slouched. The earlier thought that Sabellian looked pale resurfaced: the dragon looked ready to drop, now that he was standing.

Well, so much for _his_ usefulness, Wrathion thought, annoyed. What was Sabellian supposed to do? Slump into the mantid soldiers?

\- … Not like Wrathion himself had gotten very far with his planning. He’d been so enamored with the look of the Vale that he realized, then, that he’d completely forgotten to tell Anduin his situation.

Wrathion scowled at himself as the mantid moved them forward and out of the cave. His legs ached as he walked, numb from sitting for so long. It wasn’t like Anduin could have _helped,_ though – he was in the Vale, far away and out of reach.

Slowly, they moved up the slim, dirt hallway. The mantid were quiet and alert. Wrathion couldn’t hear the earlier storm outside – maybe it’d passed over, or maybe they were just too deep below the earth where the thunder was completely muffled.

At least the trip into Anduin’s mind hadn’t been a complete waste of time. Wrathion had seen the destruction – and he had a sinking suspicion of what Garrosh might have found.

But it was impossible. Unheard of. Beneath the Vale?…

… And yet it was too coincidental to brush aside. While Garrosh was digging, the mantid were beginning to hear their dead Old God again, and Wrathion, too, had felt that nauseous mix of fear and hate and anger and doubt that Anduin Wrynn had.

No. It had to be impossible. Coincidences _could_ happen – but Wrathion couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t a simple coincidence.

They had reached the end of the hallway, where the other two forks spread out to their sides. Wrathion glanced back at Sabellian. The dragon stared back, his orange eyes glowing in the dark.

“Well?” Wrathion hissed in draconic. He could think about the Vale later – this danger he was in was immediate, and he was not about to drink a thing that might destroy his mind.

“Wait,” Sabellian said simply.

“Don’t growl like that,” one of the mantid ordered. “Stop your prattle.”

Wrathion glared, bewildered. What did he mean, _wait?!_

He had no time to dwell on it - the mantid moved them forward again, and for the second time they found themselves into the room with the disturbing murals. Everything was happening so quickly that Wrathion hardly had time to register what was happening.

The body of the Blacktalon had been moved, but there was a clear blood trail leading out into the hallway where his body had been dragged. Wrathion glanced at it and felt nothing.

“Oh, good! Quick and efficient,” came the warbled, excited voice of Rik’kal, and Wrathion looked away from the stain to glare at the obnoxious mantid. He, and Kil’ruk, stood in the center of the room. To the side of the Wind-reaver was a waist-high gem of rotating amber, diamond in shape, that hovered above a small pulpit of entwined silver. Emanating from the amber chunk was a small atmosphere of shaking air, hardly perceptible, and Wrathion though it was only a trick of the light until he looked at it from multiple angles by tilting his head, and saw that it remained the same.

So this was the sonar mechanism. Wrathion eyed it warily as the mantid forced Sabellian to stand next to him, and the soldiers put their weapons behind the two dragons’ backs, only an inch away – a warning that they could be skewered easily.

“I still say I should examine them, first,” Rik’kal complained. “It’d be absolutely frustrating to lose such precious specimens if this goes badly.”

“It won’t go badly,” argued Xaril, who Wrathion now just noticed standing at the side of the room, in front of the mural of Y’shaarj. “My potions will work.”

“Work, yes, but side-effects may come into play!” Rik’kal exclaimed. His antennae flickered back in forth in aggravation. “How much can I test a thing whose flesh has rotted away, or whose mind has turned to a sponge? A complete waste!”

“Your conclusions are derogatory,” Xaril hissed in his papery voice. “They will see through the sonar because of _my_ work, not your unproved theories of gene plucking.”

“’ _Unproved_!’ I have worked tirelessly -”

“That is enough,” Kil’ruk snapped. “You argue as thoughtless as the newly-hatched swarmborn.”

The other paragons fell silent, and Kil’ruk turned his oval, helmeted head to study the dragons.

“At least save one for me,” Rik’kal clacked, and Xaril hissed. “The weak one, yes, maybe? Yes?”

Kil’ruk hesitated. He looked to be considering.

“Both will have to do it!” Xaril complained. “They won’t see the truth otherwise, Kil’ruk. You said it yourself.”

“Give the draught to the smaller dragon, Xaril,” Kil’ruk ordered after a moment of silence. Rik’kal gave a pleased chittering. “If it proves exemplary, you may test it on the weak one. If it fails, Rik’kal will have his chance.”

Xaril hissed out a low breath. “Very well, Wind-reaver,” he mumbled, clearly displeased, as he grabbed a small vial filled with a golden liquid from the side of his purple belt.

“Ah – what does he mean, ‘fail’?” Wrathion asked. He stared at the vial.

_How much can I test a thing whose flesh has rotted away, or whose mind has turned to a sponge?_

“You know, you really should test Sabellian, first,” Wrathion started quickly as Xaril walked over to him. Panic welled in his chest. “He’s much older -”

Xaril shoved something in Wrathion’s face with one of his tucked-in arms. Wrathion tore back, but the mantid behind him prodded his back, and a sharp smell like alcohol and rust burned against his nose.

His head began to swim. Wrathion groaned, and his knees started to buckle. Xaril grabbed him by the tabard before he fell, and, his head spinning, his vision beginning to blur, Wrathion felt himself be dragged to the center of the room where the large dusty columns stood. He was pushed against one, and something thick and slimy curled around his waist and his chest and his arms, pinning him into a standing position against the column.

Everything was a blur. All the mantid were only smears of brown and orange, and Sabellian only a smear of red. Wrathion tried to focus in on the other dragon – tried to scowl, tried to call out, tried to do _anything_ to make Sabellian _do_ something, but the poison, or whatever he had been forced to inhale, was effecting him to the point of speechlessness.

He wondered if Sabellian had known he would go first. Was that the elder dragon’s plan all along, to have the mantid test on Wrathion while he himself slipped away? Wrathion groaned, unable to do anything else to show his anger, and tried to push against his bonds. They tightened around his ribs.

“Stand still,” came Xaril’s voice, and it sounded far away. Wrathion managed to curl a lip at the mantid as the alchemist approached him again, but the mantid grabbed his chin roughly and forced his mouth open.

A cold liquid was poured down Wrathion’s throat, and it tasted like honey and blood and rotten dirt.

Wrathion gagged. He tried to spit it out, but Xaril had a harsh grip on his face, and the first drug had sapped Wrathion of all his energy.

Xaril snapped his mouth closed and tilted his head back, forcing Wrathion to swallow – and for a moment Wrathion recalled Anduin Wrynn doing the same thing when the golden prince had made him eat, and Wrathion held back a sudden whimper at his helplessness.

“Good,” Xaril said, and he let go of Wrathion’s face. Wrathion’s head drooped down to his chest; he didn’t have the strength to hold it aloft.

Nothing happened, at first, until a warmth began to spread at his chest. Wrathion tried to struggle against it, but he could do nothing but feel it slither up his body and into his head until the heat was so intense he felt as if he had dipped his head into a vat of molten iron. He started to shake – and then every sound in the room amplified, and he could hear _everything_ , even the beating hearts of the mantid, even their blood and his blood rushing through veins. He could hear the storm, yards above him, and he could hear the mushan herds of Townlong tromping passed Sik’vess.

“The sonar,” Xaril ordered, and his voice, usually a soft one, sounded like ice splinters impaling themselves against Wrathion’s ears. “Now! Now!”

There was a click, and then a buzz, a buzz that accelerated in its wild hum until it was all Wrathion could hear – and as much as he tried to block it out, as much as he tried to ignore it, the hum overtook him, and he fell away into darkness.

_There was nothing but darkness, at first, until the whole of it shifted, shifted like a living shadow:_

_The world was black, and the sky churned._

_Great swathes of dark clouds curled like thick veins against the dried blood sky, and the charred ground, littered with death – skeletons, fragments, warped trees – grumbled, swaying with the life it did not possess, swaying like the ocean and the air. It rolled and bounced and snarled, and the earthquakes grew in thunderous screams, and the lightning above bolted from the storms in wide-eyed flashes of yellow._

_From the north galloped a stream of light, an otherwordly brightness glowing at the center, and stars and clouds like mini-galaxies swept around the force. To the south came the screaming army of He With Seven Heads, and they wailed as the light burned their eyes, tearing back like roaches to scuttle underneath the cracks._

_The ground rolled underneath the cowering Servants, and a terrible roar, warbled and ancient, erupted forth from a widening crack in the earth – and reaching out came a writhing claw, wrapped with tentacle-like appendages and wisps of grey and sigh-blue, that slammed down on the rolling ground to find purchase there. Smoke burst through the earthquake, an earthquake created by this monster, this thing pulling itself up from the earth._

_The Servants screamed, their wails now bolstered in courage, as their God emerged from the depths of darkness. His form was snake-like and writhed in all different directions, each set of His uncountable limbs, which grasped out with claws, tentacles, and spikes, turning this way and that like a drunken centipede. Seven heads sprouted from the thick, rolling mound of black flesh which could have only been His chest, and their mouths were toothed and open, and white mist drooled from their open gullets. His many sets of eyes burned, and He screamed, and the very earth withered back in terror of Him._

_The great lit force from the north came forward, and a being of gold and metal and stars descended upon He With Seven Heads, and lightning flashed and thunder boomed._

_Armies of stone, dog-faced things, burst forth behind their Storm maker, and they and the Servants clashed against one another. The sound was teeth against rock, nails against metal. A serpent-like dragon made of stars wrapped itself around one of the Old One’s heads, and He With Seven Heads screamed in hate. The storm grew; the earth rolled._

_The scene shifted._

_There was a great shell, oval like an egg, sitting at the end of a room with a tall ceiling of glass. Thick columns of decorated amber sat around this throne room, this sacred hall, and silent mantid stood stationed around the sides._

_A small Empress, standing in front of the oval sphere, raised her arms – but unseen to the mantid was that her arms were pulled like a puppet’s string by slim, smoky tentacles, and many sets of eyes watched from the darkness behind her, and as she spoke He With Seven Heads spoke through her, his voice weak but growing, growing, growing._

_The room disappeared. A cave took its place, a cave forgotten by time and by the living, a cave as tall as the Keep of Stormwind and as dark as the blackest sea. A great dragon, thick and powerful, with scales as dark as shadow and eyes as red as blood, sat in front of a craggy wall, where all a manner of jewels grew but whose rough surfaces were soiled with an oozing, vile blackness._

_The dragon listened to the Earth, but it was not the Earth that spoke back to him, but the Voices of the Old Ones. They promised many things: power, glory, domination, and the dragon, wary, listened, and listened, and listened, until he returned every night and every morning to this cave, to listen to Them. The obsession overwhelmed him, and he was Theirs._

_Weak. Weak. Weak. He could not remember himself. A pawn. A step. Weak. Do not be weak. You will not be weak._

_The scene shifted. Hordes of demons burst through an open portal, demons of green, black, red hide, demons with fire in their bellies and in their eyes, demons with knives and gears for hands and snakes for heads, demons with dragon wings, demons with forked tails, and they overran the line of defenders, one after the other, until the world grew black and the Light had been snuffed, and the last scream of the dying drifted off into the silence, and the world returned to its beginnings, a blanket of rolling Chaos, a pristine and terrible thing._

_Inevitable. Inevitable._

_The scene shifted. There was a host of black dragons flying over a harbor in the darkness, orcs adorned with skulls on their backs._

_The scene shifted. A great city of gold rose up from the snow, and tentacles choked the iron columns._

_The scene shifted. A red dragon devoured her jailer whole, and her freed children screamed with mouths of fire._

_The scene shifted._

_The scene shifted._

_The scene shifted._

_The scene shifte -_

—-

Left knew that this was going to be the only chance for escape she would have.

She, and the other Blacktalons – only Horace and Alexia, now – had been moved from the room with the great murals to another, taking the middle fork that had branched off from the main hallway they had initially walked down. Here they found themselves in a smaller room with a high ceiling made entirely of amber that had the smooth consistency of glass, and it glowed like a pool of topaz above their heads, lighting the otherwise dark room, whose sides were circular and rounded off with the thick, snaking roots that came out from the hallway.

Inside it smelled of burnt sugar and molded earth and the papery, pulpy smell of the mantid; it was here they had been ushered to the side of the room and quickly surrounded by a tight semi-circle of mantid soldiers, whose great-knuckled claws gripped their amber weapons with a quiet but intense focus – and it was here they watched the tall, hooded mantid Xaril work his alchemy.

The paragon’s fragmented arms, all four, had been full, grasping onto all manners of reagents: brittle, black leaves, freshly plucked orange flowers, dried, molded flesh, dusted bone, and slim amber vials. He had muttered to himself regularly.

Left had him through the slim gaps between the mantid soldiers in front of her. He had been hunched over a crudely erected workbench of sorts: a large chunk of amber that had been melted down in the center to create a bowl deep inside, like a cauldron. A steady steam of white mist had drifted from the bubbling mixture that Xaril had created and continued to tweak.

The orc had said nothing. She had only watched, knowing too well that she would just be threatened back into silence if she spoke, and though she was unafraid of these vile vermin, she was smart – to fight back now, with a paragon here, was asking for a brutal injury or a brutal death, and she could not be weak or a corpse to help her Prince from his own captivity somewhere else in this bowels of the earth.

“No, no, no,” Xaril had muttered to himself. He’d tossed the molded flesh into the bowl, and a high-pitched hissing steamed out from the angered concoction. The mist had momentarily turned a dried red before becoming white again; it began to smell like rotten meat in the room. Xaril had made a series of clicking noises with his mandibles, and Left was unsure if they were pleased sounds.

But she had cared little about that; all she cared about was what was going into that potion. Left had flexed her hands, bounded by only a thin piece of amber, as she went over the ingredients she’d seen Xaril toss in. As a rogue, she had an extensive knowledge of reagents, and though poison was not her specialty, she had still been adeptly able to single out the different ingredients Xaril had used – none of them were poisonous. She had been wary of the excessive Fool’s Cap – a red-tinged fungus commonly found in the Dread Wastes – the mantid had used, for too much of that particular herb often caused seizures in the victim, but otherwise, the other ingredients were relatively harmless, if not a bit disgusting.

But Left didn’t know it’s effects, and it frustrated her. She had heard what Kil’ruk had said – a potion for the sonar – but did not know what that meant. Assuming it would be to push her Prince further to the Old God, Left did not like it. In the passed hour she had tried to contact Wrathion, quietly, not wanting to catch the attention of the watchful mantid, but each time she had met a resistance – he was speaking to someone else, and that alone made her restless and annoyed. Who could he be talking to through his gem if not her?

“Done!” Xaril had announced, and his whispery voice had grown so loud the other mantid startled. The paragon had filled two vials, full to the brim with a liquid that was a golden, sweet yellow. He’d turned to the mantid guards, told them to continue their work, and to kill the three if the “lesser beings” caused more trouble than was necessary.

And, a strange bounce in his step, Xaril the paragon had gone away, and the entrance-way had closed behind him.

That had been ten minutes ago. The paragon had not returned. Left knew he wouldn’t – but caution was critical, especially when dealing with a situation as tight as this one.

She flexed her hands again and glanced at the mantid that were guarding them. They stood still. Left had had ample amount to study them in the long hours she had stood there in silence, hours that were uncountable below the earth and away from the sun.

Satisfied with her findings, she glanced at the Blacktalons to her right: Alexia, the runner who had signaled the mantid’s coming, was bleeding from her temple, and her blood had pooled down the side of her face before drying. Horace, the Blacktalon with the thick accent of Westfall, was relatively unharmed save for a large black and orange bruise that mottled his entire neck.

Losing Atharian had been a blow to their resources, but inevitable. The blood elf had had no chance. Left looked away from the others and glanced at the mantid again, her eyes shadowed from the careful tilt of her head.

Something seemed to have caught the bugs’ attention. Their heads swiveled to the side to look out at the entrance of the tunnel, and their antennae were perked, their already wide eyes even wider. They went very still and alert.

Left eyed them cautiously. They did not look worried, and did not stir into attention. Whatever had happened beyond was in their favor, and Left knew, then, knew more than ever, that her Prince was in danger. With how many minutes she’d allowed to pass, she had no reason to think Xaril was readying, or had already readied, that foul drink for Wrathion.

And Left had only one priority: get the Black Prince out safely.

She still berated herself for allowing this to get too far. As she focused inward again on her gem, a process that was as easy as taking a breath, Left begrudgingly recalled the two times that Wrathion had had a chance to get away, the two times she could have leaped into action and, though outnumbered, fight the mantid for as long as she could while the dragon slipped away in the chaos.

But each of those times he had shaken his head at her, and Left had grown frustrated. She was _his_ bodyguard; not the other way around.

And now he was gone, in further danger, and Left was here, and she would have to deal with the consequences of her Prince’s inaction.

With Xaril gone, that was proving much easier than she would have hoped.

But she had to be quick. She had stalled, and had been cautious, worried her own movements might hurt her Prince in turn, far away, for too long.

And she would not allow herself to slip up again – as she had with the drake at the Tavern, too powerful and too large for Left to defeat alone, barring her from helping Right; as she had when Wrathion had sent her away, and Sabellian had come. Both times were not her fault, but she even then she felt it was: a warrior, a rogue, an orc, was supposed to be a protector, and who was she if she could not protect the person she’d dedicated her life to?

She connected to her gem and found both glows of the other Blacktalons’ jewels beside her. Left grabbed onto them and opened communication.

“ _How tight are your bonds_?” Left asked. Neither of the humans outwardly reacted to her sudden mental presence, but Left felt a spring of mental attention from both of the rogues.

“ _Brittle,”_ Alexia said. Horace said nothing, and Left knew his answer was the same.

“ _There_ _are five mantid_ ,” Left began. Her voice was quick and rough, but her words were clear. “ _The one on the far left has a weak right leg. The center is wounded at the back. The mantid second to the right has poor hearing, and its weapon is too thinly made at the shaft.”_ She paused so that the two could digest the information. “ _In two minutes I will break my bonds and gather their attention. After ten seconds you both will do the same. Kill all but the one with the poor hearing._ ”

Both Blacktalons made mental sounds of confirmation.

Left shifted her focus. Instead of showing the Blacktalons her audible thoughts, she instead turned them to watch a run through of the plan she had been working on for hours, one she had perfected with the length of time they’d been stored here like the bargaining chips they were. The other Blacktalons concentrated. Left replayed it two times before nodding a subtle nod and breaking connection.

That had been one minute. The last remained before she would break away from her bonds.

Left watched the mantid. They remained looking at the entrance.

Thirty seconds. She flexed her hands slowly, feeling the strength ebbing into her knuckles and palm.

Twenty seconds. The mantid had taken their weapons away at the camp site, including Left’s golden crossbow, but the bugs had not realized just how many places a rogue could hide a dagger.

Ten seconds. Left curled one of her hands into a loose fist and pulled her shoulders down in a small, barely perceptible crouch.

Time.

Left pulled her hands apart with a great, quick strength, and the brittle cuffs broke apart, bursting into a hundred pieces of shattered amber.

Before the mantid had time to turn around, Left had already grabbed the two daggers hidden at the straps between her lower thighs, raised them, and cut off one of the wings of the center mantid, the one with the wounded back.

The mantid screamed terribly. The rest turned around in a flurry of clacking chitin and buzzing wings and foaming mandibles, their bodies taut with surprise.

Five seconds. Left spun, snarling, as one of the mantid, one of the two who had little weaknesses to physically see, wailed and swept its polished amber polearm at her.

She rounded to the front of them. The five screamed at her and the closest one lunged.

Ten seconds.

Behind the mantid, the Blacktalons shattered their cuffs.

Left slammed her fist into the oval head of the mantid that had lunged at her, and as he went stumbling, for he was the one with the wounded leg, she uppercut her dagger into his abdomen, twisting, the chitin breaking like a crab’s carapace beneath the point.

She pulled away and smashed her heel into the knee of his bad leg, and the mantid fell back.

The rest was an efficient blur. Alexia had found the wound at the now one-winged mantid and plunged her dagger inside. Horace broke the poor weapon of the half-deaf mantid with a flat-palm maneuver he’d learned from the monks. Left snapped her arm around the neck of the first soldier to come after her, and twisted his head off in a simple jerking motion of her elbow.

In the first two minutes, three of the mantid were dead.

In another minute, Left had killed another by striking him twice in the throat with both daggers and, as he’d fallen, she had fallen atop him and had twisted one of his legs half-off by grabbing it by the thigh with the bottoms of her feet.

She stood. The last mantid hissed at them, though he cowered near the closed entryway. Like in their plan he was the one with the poor hearing, and he would be left alive.

The Blacktalons had no use to speak to one another; all had seen what Left had envisioned. Horace and Alexia bolted forward, as quick and as silent as the lions of Durotar, and grabbed him by the shoulders, a Blacktalon to each side; they slammed him back into the entryway, and his amber armor rattled.

The mantid opened his small mouth, his multi-faceted eyes swinging in different directions like a confused chameleon, as he went to sound for alarm.

Left grabbed his face just as the sound began to shriek from his throat. She jerked him to the side, the Blacktalons moving fluidly around her, their grips remaining on the mantid’s strong shoulders, and slammed his head into the closed-off entrance way.

The scream he gave was terrible and shrill and loud, loud enough where Left knew she had been right, and the mantid was overcompensating for his voice he could not hear as well. The noise, unlike the other mantid, became warbled and toneless and confused.

The entryway shook slowly. Left let go of the mantid, and Horace thrust his dagger into the mantid’s forehead for a quick death; it slumped to the ground, twitching.

The mantid’s scream had confused the enchantment on the doorway. Like an overcharged electrical part, the doorway shuddered and grumbled, and the roots that curled around it stiffened like a snake constricting.

“Come on,” Left growled. It was taking too long. If this didn’t work -

Slowly, the roots pulled away, though they seemed confused, lagging, as to why they were doing it. They disappeared into the wall, and the wall of dirt and its secondary barrier of webbed wings pulled back and away.

The hallway yawned darkly in front of them, a gullet of a great beast.

“Protect the Prince at all costs,” Left said. Horace and Alexia nodded.

They disappeared into the shadows and started forward.


	21. Chapter 21

 

The longer Left walked through the tunnels, the longer it began to stink of rotten flesh.

She hugged the wall to her side tight as she walked, leading the way. The shadows melded and shifted around her – they were as fluid as water, as moldable as clay, and she commanded them with only the slightest ounce of concentration – a mere afterthought. 

She was not Wrathion's personal bodyguard for nothing.

The curved roof above the tunnel shook once, briefly. Left halted; the two rogues behind her did the same. Bits of dirt and debris tumbled idly from the gnarled roots curled above.

_Gotta be the storm_ , Horace said in his thick, syrupy-accented voice, which was nothing but a whisper in Left's mind.

Left gave no answer. There was no need for one – the rumbling must have been at fault from the storm high above.

The shuddering stopped, but left behind an even fiercer stench of rot. Left wrinkled her nose, ignored it, and moved on.

Minutes stretched on in silence. The Blacktalons were as quiet as the shadows that hid them, and the darkness in the tunnel as black as their leather. The only reason Left could make out the end of the hallway, marked by the branching fork in the path, was because of the chunks of glowing amber embedded in the walls – though she could have sworn they had glowed brighter before, when they had been walked to their temporary prison.

Perhaps it was the lack of the mantid - or perhaps it was the kypari tree itself. The fork neared closer. The rotting was cause for alarm, and Left began to wonder if it was not the putrid smell of flesh but instead the very tree around her dying from the wounds it'd taken along its exterior.

She had no way to know, and little time or energy to care. Unless the tree began to sink in on itself and endanger Wrathion further, Left didn't mind the kypari. All she could, and had to, focus on was getting the Prince out safely.

They reached the fork. She tightened her hold on her dagger. Wrathion was close – and it would be much more difficult getting him out than it had freeing themselves. Left had no reason to think he wasn't with the three paragons... and with only three Blacktalons, her resources were woefully limited.

But she would make do, like she always did.

Left loosened her grip on her weapons and began down the next archway that led out to the large room with the murals. The tunnel rumbled, as the last had; she didn't halt until it passed, this time. She had lost enough precious minutes waiting for Xaril to leave – for all she knew, Wrathion might have been forced to drink that foul concoction the paragon had brewed already.

Realistically, Left had little doubt to think otherwise.

She felt her heartbeat quicken at her wrist, warm against her black gloves, as she rounded a gently sloping corner of the hallway and slipped around a hanging root from the ceiling in her way. The pitch black of the tunnel was lessening with each step. The room must have been just ahead, around the next turn.

Left stopped abruptly as she heard distant murmurings. Tilting her head, she strained for individual voices – but there was no sound from her Prince, and none from Sabellian. There was only the hissing mumblings of the mantid, and they were difficult to hear.

But she didn't miss how their clacks and clicks sounded excited. 

That was not good news.

Slowly, she pocketed one of her daggers at her belt and cursed the damn bugs for taking her crossbow. Left could have sniped half of them from afar before they had any idea of what was going on – but with daggers, there was a lower probability of _that_ happening. She considered, thoroughly aggravated but quiet in the dark. 

Rule one was to protect the Prince; _objective_ one was to get him out. The two were not mutually exclusive. Some plans for his freedom might endanger his safety – and Left would have to deal with that.

But Left needed to see what was happening. She held up her hand to the Blacktalons behind her, signaling them to wait and, creeping forward, looked around the small curve.

The room was only feet away. Left could see clearly inside, and around most of its circumference. A line of five mantid shoulders stood near the entrance but, thankfully, the orc could see above their linked shoulders – and saw beyond the three paragons, marked by their armor and colored chitin. Rik'kal stood off to the side, near the mural of the Empress, wringing his hands together in anxious, twisting movements that were unnerving to look at; Kil'ruk stood next to a pedestal where above rotated a chunk of glowing amber; and Xaril -

Left had to force her breath not to catch, and choked back the animalistic growl that threatened her throat. Xaril was standing to the side of one of the four enormous, carved pillars in the room – and tied to it was Wrathion, held fast by blackened vines that pulsed with a shadowy, Sha-like glow.

Wrathion did not look conscious: his head was drooped to his chest, and every one of his limbs sagged. He was as limp as a ragdoll, though Left saw no wounds he'd sustained; she could hardly see him breathing, and an angry panic welled in her stomach before he finally took a faint breath, his chest rising and falling with the most pitiful inhale she'd ever seen. 

But he was alive. Left forced herself to relax, to preserve her professionalism. She did not want to be like the fool Anduin Wrynn, who'd nearly leaped from the rocky ledge down to Wrathion in the Kun-lai cave. 

No – Left would do this precisely, cleverly, and systematically. Otherwise, she would be endangering the Prince, and her charge would die at her hands. 

And she wasn't about to allow someone else die because of her lack of action.

Left scanned the sparse crowd with pursed lips, her tusks pulled back close to her mouth, their sides smooth against her upper lip. This was going to be even trickier than she thought. The hallway was a slim bottleneck, and with her charge nestled deep inside, she had no upper hand but the hand of surprise. It would be difficult getting in _and_ getting out, and Left was well aware that sneaking out a prize the mantid apparently were desperate for was not an option.

She paused in her scan as her eyes settled on Sabellian. Left hadn't even noticed him before – it was no question as to _why_. The dragon was stooped, his head hanging nearly as badly as Wrathion's was, and he seemed to be straining to keep upright. The wounds at his shoulder and waist looked to be bleeding, even after all this time, and the entire left side of his robe and body were stained with a long, thick smear of red, as if he had dunked only that half of himself into red paint; he blended into the background, a second-thought, like a wounded dog on the side of a street. Left found it surprising how he hadn't bled out yet, or simply died from shock. 

He would be no help. Left crinkled her nose in distaste. As if _she_ would stoop so low as to ask that disgusting piece of _filth_ for help. 

“Is it working?” Rik'kal said, and Left was jumped from her musings. She focused in on the paragon, eyes grim but alert. Rik'kal stopped the anxious wringing of his fingers. “He stopped moving!”

“Of course it's working,” Xaril hissed. He stood straight, his segmented back fully erect, in an offensive stance – like a cobra lifting its head to an attacker, complete with his purple hood. 

“And I suppose the blood leaking from his nose and mouth and ears is good,” Rik'kal complained. “You've ruined it.”

Left shot her gaze back to Wrathion, alarmed. She hadn't noticed the blood. He was too far away for her too, and his head was slouched down; the orc couldn't see his face. She scowled, her teeth sharp and feral against her face.

They had administered the dose. She'd been too slow.

She cursed herself, but hurriedly brushed this setback away. Wrathion was still alive; Left planned on keep it this way. 

“I have not _ruined_ it,” Xaril growled in his whispering voice. “He is Listening.”

Rik'kal grumbled. He went back to wringing his hands. Kil'ruk watched the two passively, but his eyes traveled back to watch Wrathion.

Left had seen enough. She pulled back from the corner, and turned to face the two waiting Blacktalons behind her.

_His Majesty is unconscious,_ Left said through their linked gems. Horace and Alexia focused in on her; they were hardly seeable in the shadows, but with her honed eyes, Left was just able to see them, see how the shadows gently distorted against their forms where they hid, something that was hardly noticeable to an untrained eye. _The three paragons are in the room._

Alexia bit her bottom lip. She glanced at the corner, then back at Left.

_**Three**_? Alexia repeated, and Left gave her a sharp look. 

_You aren't deaf_ , the orc snapped back, and Alexia went quiet.

Horace quietly looked around the corner. He pursed his mouth into a thin line, wrinkled his nose, and straightened back to face them.

_Wait until he's untied,_ Horace suggested. _Ain't gonna get him down secretly otherwise – counted at least eight bugs in there, includin' the paragons. Maybe more, I dunno._ He glanced between them. _Don't look too good for us._

Left ground her teeth, her tusks slipping up and down. She ran over the set-up of the room again: the columns, the line of mantid, the paragons, the murals...

The Kun-lai cave had been an easy enough puzzle to solve with the Sha-infested drake at her disposal, though Anduin Wrynn had been sloppy and slow. At the very least, Left had better back-up than a puppy-prince, but the situation was worse. There was little in ways of distraction, now, and to slip in and out of the room with the Prince was impossible - 

Left paused. Her teeth stopped their aggravated grinding. 

Maybe there _was_ a distraction she could use.

_We'll wait until he's untied,_ Left said, glancing at Horace. _The paragons are too focused on the Prince and Sabellian for us, but their underlings are not._

Alexia's eyes flickered with understanding. _There's not much room to run and dodge in here, Left._

Left withheld a snarl. _Do you have any better suggestions?_

Alexia licked her lips nervously, and shook her head. 

_Good. Then you'll be the one doing it_ , Left ordered. _You are the fastest._

Alexia nodded mutely. The rogue took a breath, and her eyes grew hard; her nervousness fell quietly, and she stood rigid and at attention, awaiting her job.

Left was satisfied that she was acting professional. 

_When the mantid are gone, you and I will retrieve the Prince, Horace,_ Left ordered quickly. She turned away from the two to look around the corner again – the situation inside the room had hardly changed. Wrathion remained tied to the column, but now Xaril was pacing back and forth, his claws clasped behind his back. Rik'kal was looking at him smugly from the side.

Left didn't know what that meant. She glanced around the room before focusing on Wrathion. Each of his breaths were forced and tired and shaky; Left found her grip on her dagger tightening again and forced her temper back. 

_When they untie him_ , Left began slowly, keeping her eyes on Wrathion, _we need to act immediately. Hesitation will kill us._ She paused to glance at the various positions of the paragons, and grit her teeth: Xaril and Kil'ruk were too close together. It would have been more of an advantage, had they been on opposite corners of the room as Rik'kal was, but Left would have to make do. _It's the Wind-reaver who will be quickest to react. I'll engage him while you grab the Prince. Attempt to force him into his true form, if he is conscious enough. Ignore Sabellian. He looks ready to die. I will not sacrifice the Prince's safety to slit his throat, no matter how much pleasure that would bring me._

She felt Horace nod inside of her head. 

_When I engage the paragons, you will take the Prince outside. Alexia – you must get the underlings as far away as you're able. The Prince and Horace will be caught between them and the paragons in the tunnels if you do not, at least, get them to the main chamber._

 _Of course_ , Alexia said. 

Left squinted at Kil'ruk. The Wind-reaver was standing placidly, unhindered by the nervous pacing of Xaril. He wasn't even looking at Wrathion, anymore – instead his helmeted gaze was trained at the mural of Y'shaarj, and his antennae flicked every moment or so. 

Xaril had said this chamber had once hosted those who had spoken directly to the Old God. It must have been ancient. Was Kil'ruk hearing his dead Master, now?

Left didn't have time to dwell on that, either – but what else could she do? She was trapped by waiting for Wrathion to be untied – _if_ he ended up being untied.

_Left_ , Horace said suddenly, and the orc glanced at him, annoyed. _What about you?_

_What about me?_

_You ain't gonna be able to fight all three of those paragons at once._

_I will, for some time_ , Left said. She looked away to focus back in on the room. _If there's an opportunity for me to get away, then I'll take it, but only if the Prince is safe. Otherwise – do not wait for me._

She felt a small ball of worry form in her head, and was unsure if it came from Alexia or Horace's mind. Left rolled her eyes and smoothed her thumb down the bumps of the leather hilt on her dagger, and forced their untrained feeling away.

_What if the Prince doesn't wanna' come with me?_ Horace asked after a moment. 

Left paused, then shook her head. _Force him to. He can't linger._

That was another obstacle. They were bound to their Prince's orders, but were charged with protecting him. The two, sometimes, wouldn't coincide – and, as senior rogue, Left had to make these sorts of decisions.

But Wrathion was under no condition to make any decision of his own. He would be getting out of here – like it or not.

The roof shook again, but it felt quieter, weaker; the storm must have been slipping away, though the scent of rot only grew worse. It took every bit of concentration not to hold her free hand over her face to block out the curdled smell.

How long passed, how many minutes, Left had little idea. The silence in both the tunnel and in the room, pierced only by the _tap clack tap clack_ of Xaril's feet hitting the floor as he paced, was a muffler of time. 

Xaril stopped walking and snapped his attention to Wrathion. Left ground her teeth. The time was nearing.

She only hoped their foolhardy, sloppy plan would be good enough.

“Let him down,” Xaril said. “The sonar has stopped.”

Left glanced at the iron pedestal, with the rotating chunk of amber – though the amber was no longer moving. It simply hovered, idle, above the metal claw.

Kil'ruk looked away from the mural, nodded, and made a series of quiet chittering noises. The vines around Wrathion slithered away and disappeared into grey smoke.

Wrathion stayed upright, for the first three seconds – but then, with a low, keening groan, he started to sway forward and his knees began to shake violently, and he began to fall forward before Xaril snatched him casually by his scaled tunic and hoisted him upright, easily plucking him off of the ground so that his feet no longer touched the floor.

Left growled low in her throat as Xaril pushed back Wrathion's head from hanging at his chest. Now, Left could see his face – and it was just as Rik'kal had described. Blood dribbled from Wrathion's nose and down his chin, and slid from the corners of his faintly-scowling mouth. Even at his ears, blood came – and from here most of all. Both sides of his neck, his jaws, were stained with a leaking stream of blood dripping from his ears, and it soaked against his fringed spaulders and dried at his black hair.

Wrathion shakily opened his eyes, but winced harshly before he could open them fully. He retreated them back into a slim sliver and eyed Xaril with a dull look, as if looking from far away. He looked, Left thought, drugged, or drunk. Wrathion shuddered.

Xaril clacked his mandibles. “You saw more than we wished,” the alchemist snapped. “Your mind reeled off the sonar. Explain.”

Wrathion slowly smacked his lips together, and squinted at Xaril in confusion, as if he was unsure what was going on. He opened his mouth, every ounce of his movements strained, slow, and drugged, but no words came, and he clacked his teeth together in a loud _snap_.

Xaril hissed in annoyance. “Useless,” the paragon growled. He shook Wrathion once, hard, and the Black Prince scrunched his eyes closed; a dizzy, pained whimper keened from his throat. “Your mind went beyond the boundaries!”

“Xaril,” Kil'ruk interrupted, eying the two with some distaste. “You will not get information from a wounded animal by harming it more. You have failed. Rik'kal has his chance.”

“No, Wind-reaver,” Xaril growled. He looked at Kil'ruk, then back at Wrathion. Left knew little about the body language of the mantid, but she could only guess that the way Xaril held himself – high-strung, antennae flickering wildly, his feet splayed out – that the mantid was... wildly confused. “No. No! This lesser _thing_ can not have possibly done what it did! I was in-tune with the sonar, and I heard him completely pull away, far beyond what I had set for the Old One! He Listened, yet – well – look!” He pointed a clawed hand at Wrathion in accusation. “My alchemy should have prevented this.” Xaril leaned his head in close, and Wrathion looked at the mantid dully. “What trick have you done?” Xaril growled. He shook Wrathion again. “Explain!”

“Perhaps my deep-gene probing might give cause for answers,” Rik'kal pointed out, and Xaril snapped his head to his kin and hissed.

“Quiet,” Xaril snapped. 

Kil'ruk calmly reached out, grabbed a hold of Xaril's wrist, and squeezed. The alchemist gave a pained hiss, but Kil'ruk did not let go. 

The air in the room tensed and shifted as Xaril turned to look at Kil'ruk. The two paragons stared at one another, and though Xaril was taller than his brethren, it was Kil'ruk who gave off the air of power and superiority. 

“Desperation,” Kil'ruk said quietly, “is not needed, Xaril.” He looked at Wrathion without turning his head before fixing the alchemist with a pointed gaze. “Indeed, He hungers, but do not rush into foolishness. He is patient.” Slowly, he let go of Xaril's wrist. “The host will take his place, soon, as is told. These offerings will bolster Him. But there is time.”

Xaril hesitated. He glanced at Wrathion before looking back at Kil'ruk again, then hissed low underneath his breath. 

“Very well, Wind-reaver,” the alchemist muttered, and, slowly, set Wrathion down without looking at him. The Black Prince slumped back against the column and swallowed hard; his head swayed back and forth like the chime of a clock. 

Rik'kal hummed appreciatively. “I will do this in the right process,” he said. Rik'kal glanced at Xaril suggestively and the alchemist drew himself up, offended. “ _I_ will please the Old One.”

Left withheld another growl. Quietly, she turned back towards the hallway.

Now? She needed to find the best time to intervene.

Something easier said than done.

She gripped her dagger hard and waited.

\---

Everything was blurry. 

Everything. Wrathion's head, his eyes, the slogged, buzzed feeling scouring across every inch of his skin. He was in a thick fog, lost like a ship at sea; his thoughts drifted, aimless, unable to connect.

What was going on? Where was he? _Who_ was he? Even the questions were difficult to ask, and the answers to them impossible. His ears rang with a dull, forgotten vibration – it felt so _familiar_ -...

_Who am I_?

His mind answered with a spike of pain swiping sharp through his head. Something whimpered: a garbled, tired noise.

He was afraid to ask another question.

A strong feeling shivered at his gut. It was unpleasant – sharp, sour, and foul. It sent his slowed, drugged heart to beating.

Panic. Alarm. That was the feeling in his stomach, he realized dully, his mind unable to connect body and feeling with thought as quickly as he would have liked. 

But why did he have any reason to be panicked? He had no idea who he was, what was going on... everything was so _dizzy_ -!

_What trick have you done? Explain!_

Had that been a dream, too? It had felt real – but so had everything else he'd seen, the only things he could remember in his floating fog... everything that had been impaled on his mind over and over and over and over and over - 

Wrathion inhaled sharply. Nausea welled at his throat. Oh, _please_ , he didn't want to remember any of it.

As if attempting to escape his own mind, Wrathion pushed backwards hard against the pillar. The back of his head ground back against the hard rock, but he hardly felt the pain. 

“Do not move,” a voice ordered to his left, and Wrathion instantly went still.

But he recognized the voice. It had just spoken a moment ago, hadn't it? Or had that been from his visions? Wrathion knew the questions he asked were worthless, but was frustrated with them still. 

Ignoring the building tension of alarm in his stomach, he used every ounce of energy to open his eyes, turn his head and look up at the source of the voice. 

His vision was as blurred as his thoughts were, but Wrathion could clearly see a tall mantid standing to his side, adorned with great veined wings and a thick gold and purple helmet.

Kil'ruk. Wrathion took a breath. He remembered something!

Desperately, he grabbed onto the piece of information, and focused all of his attention onto the mantid whose name he knew.

“Hello,” Wrathion mumbled, his voice slow and drugged.

“Do not speak.”

“Alright.”

Without thought to his actions Wrathion looked away and out at the room. Everything was swaying, but he was glad to note his vision was slowly beginning to sharpen – but so was his thoughts. 

Wrathion swallowed. He would have thought that would have been a good thing, but replacing the haze was a slow-coming throb of pain. And it _hurt_. In a mere handful of seconds his head swayed from a dull, unfeeling numbness to a sudden plethora of agony. It felt as if someone was attempting to rip his head apart between his eyes. 

He inhaled sharply and scrunched his eyes closed, and he whimpered in agony.

It did not stop with the pain. His thoughts, once aimless, started to heighten into such intense focus that Wrathion couldn't even lock onto a single one. Everything came at once, and everything was screaming. His own mind was wailing at him: it was a wall of screeching static, and every thought, every emotion, every memory, was smashing into his temple like hailstorm, and they melted and dispersed there so quickly he had no indication of what they were even _saying_ or showing him.

Something hot leaked from Wrathion's nose, and he realized it was blood.

“Xaril,” Kil'ruk said, and Wrathion could only just hear him through the onslaught, and he groaned in agony, “your creature is reacting.”

A loud hiss of frustration snapped forth from Wrathion's right. The dragon forced his eyes open, though it was difficult: his forehead felt weighed down, and opening his eyes, even a sliver, was like pushing them up against rock.

Xaril was striding forward, but Kil'ruk abruptly raised a hand to stop him. The alchemist glanced over at the other paragon distastefully.

“Wait,” Kil'ruk ordered. “Look at me, Black Prince.”

Wrathion did as he was told without question. He looked up at the Wind-reaver as he lifted a hand to clutch onto the side of his head. 

Kil'ruk said nothing, at first. His multi-faceted eyes locked down on Wrathion with a studious but predatory gaze, and the forgotten panic, dulled by Wrathion's assault of thought, curdled again, a warning that Wrathion only ignored – for something began to grow and center at the back of his head the longer he looked at Kil'ruk. He grabbed onto it desperately, eager to have _some_ sense of focus, _some_ clear thought. 

It told him to Listen, so he did.

“Do you fear?” Kil'ruk asked, and Wrathion nodded his head, swallowing hard. Some small voice in the back of his head was managing to muscle through the wild static of his mind - it whispered to him to lie, to look away, to say nothing, but the other, thickening pinpoint of concentration from before that had bloomed at the back of his head overpowered everything else. He ignored his own instinct and pushed away his own voice.

“You have seen the Old One,” Kil'ruk continued. His eyes glinted darkly underneath his metal helmet. “It is Him you fear.”

“Yes,” Wrathion croaked. Again he was goaded by the intense feeling to listen and speak to Kil'ruk. “Yes.”

“Fear is weakness,” Kil'ruk explained. “And yet, Fear is natural.” He slowly slid around to stand in front of Wrathion. “His Terror is great – His Power, terrible. You were afraid before, but you did not see what He is capable of. Do you see, now?”

Wrathion nodded blearily. He remembered the hoard of mantid – mantid like these – the thundering sky, the breaking earth -...

And the – the _thing_ -... bursting forth...

He shuddered, his mind reeling. For a moment the pinprick of focus he had became shaky, but it sharpened a heartbeat later, and he stilled.

Kil'ruk studied him quietly before continuing. “Now you see.” The paragon leaned forward. “He will give you strength, Black Prince. Power to move the world at your command, to sway kingdoms like pawns upon a board.”

As Kil'ruk spoke, the paragon's low voice began to change. It became impossibly deep, rumbling like falling earth – and it made another ring of alarm sound faintly in Wrathion's head. Didn't he recognize that tone, that grumbling murmur? A dream within a nightmare - 

His suspicion dulled with the throbbing of focus, like someone was simply reaching out and shielding his eyes from the unpleasant thoughts. Wrathion sagged into the mental hold with a thankful sigh.

The power to move kingdoms. 

Wrathion's head began to buzz, yet the overwhelming static was nearly gone, now, replaced only by this strange, lit concentration. The buzzing was another entity entirely – an excited, pleased shake in his thoughts.

“Remember. You will make mistakes again, and again,” Kil'ruk continued – if it was Kil'ruk at all, anymore - “until you fall upon your knees and the world rips you apart. You are as weak any child, and as foolish as any mortal.”

“Yes,” Wrathion whispered, agreeing. Something cold bloomed at his throat. The feeling was painfully familiar, but he was too focused on Kil'ruk to care. 

Kil'ruk knelt down to Wrathion's level, his segmented legs creaking at their hinges.

“Kil'ruk -” Rik'kal called out, but the Wind-reaver only flicked a single antennae in the scientist's direction, and the other paragon fell silent, whether in fear or with obedience.

Wrathion didn't look over at the other two ancient mantid; all he could stare at was Kil'ruk's great oval eyes. Every inch of his body felt as if it was leaning forward, hanging onto every word the mantid murmured.

“He can give you such power,” Kil'ruk explained in his alien voice. “You will fail and fall without help.”

“I -” Wrathion paused, and swallowed hard. The intense point on concentration wavered, and for a single instant his trance-like state shimmered away.

_You are stronger than your father, young prince. You have friends._

_Your friends did not let you fall._

The voices flourished strongly from his mind, beautiful and solid and touchable in their sureness and genuineness. 

Wrathion frowned, confused. “I have help,” he murmured. “Friends.”

“Your friends will abandon you,” Kil'ruk hissed, and his abrupt anger made Wrathion flinch.

“Where are these friends, your allies, now?” Kil'ruk asked, and his voice had become level again, if not in-tune with the same grumbling, ancient voice as before. He gestured, slowly, with a wide arc of his arm to the room. “Are they here?”

The fuzz in Wrathion's head slid over like a sheep's wool against the strong, beautiful voices that had bloomed in his mind. The beat of concentration on Kil'ruk returned, and the cold circling Wrathion's neck slunk down to his chest, and swirled around his upper arms.

“No,” Wrathion said lowly. A deep and terrible sadness began to grow in the cavity of his lungs, weighing him down, as the ghostly chill around his body strengthened.

“They will all leave you but Him,” Kil'ruk explained. “A constant ally. Remember what we have shown you: such power and strength. The very earth withering in fear. Would you like that?”

“Stop _listening_ to him, you foolish little prince!” Came a snarl, and Wrathion jolted. He looked over, eyes wide, and saw Sabellian straining against a mantid, who held him fast from behind. “He is no ally. _**Listen**_ to me!” His voice grew into a roaring snarl with every word and Kil'ruk hissed. “Do not remember whatever it is they showed you. Remember what They did to our family. Remember why we are _alone_.”

Kil'ruk flicked a casual claw, and the mantid holding Sabellian smashed the hilt of his amber sword into the back of the elder dragon's head. Sabellian jerked forward with a pained snarl and fell limp but conscious against the hold.

Wrathion stared, wide-eyed. 

_Remember why we are alone._

_\---- He was standing in the center of a grassy arena. The flames from the red dragon attack gusted hot against the wind, and the red dragon corpse stared lifelessly from the side, its eyes watching Wrathion with a coldness._

_But its eyes were not the one Wrathion stared into. Fahrad stood before him, grasping at his belt to pull a dagger from its sheath, and his gaze was faraway and unfocused – broken, shattered,_ _**wrong** _ **,** _and it made Wrathion feel a knowing fear in the depths of his chest._

_“Why did you have to go and anger Them?!” Fahrad roared desperately, and Wrathion knew he had made the right choice._

Wrathion blinked hard. He was once against staring into the searching eyes of the Wind-reaver, and Fahrad was once again dead in the recesses of his memories.

He looked back at Kil'ruk blankly.

“It's Your fault,” Wrathion murmured. He narrowed his eyes. The voice – because that's what he realized, then, was the point of concentration sucking in the rest of his thoughts, a voiceless tone, but a voice all the same, goading him into submission – slithered back, lessening. Wrathion growled. He drew himself up against the pillar.

In that instant, in that reminder, everything grew clear.

He knew who he was. Who knew where he was. He realized what had happened, where he had been.

He took a low, growling breath and forced the presence in his mind away, though it made him secretly afraid. It lurched back like a beaten animal and burst sharply – and then it was gone, a pressure popped, and his head was his again, despite the reeling of pain still inherit there. The tendrils of Sha he hadn't realized were there before – the cold that had seeped down his neck, around his chest, around his arms – disappeared.

A slow, casual smile, his lips red from the blood leaking from his nose and the sides of his mouth, spread up his face.

“You know, Y'shaarj,” Wrathion began – because this was not Kil'ruk standing in front of him, he knew that now – this was a host, a puppet the God was speaking through. He _knew_ he'd recognized the voice. “Your offer is _very_ tempting, but I'll have to decline.”

Kil'ruk tilted his head at him.

It seemed the paragon – or perhaps Y'shaarj, or both – didn't realize Wrathion had ripped himself from the sonar-induced stupor. He took the advantage.

“Because _you_ have no idea who you're dealing with,” Wrathion said, and his voice grew into an angry growl, and he drew himself up. Despite sitting down, despite the rest of the mantid looking _down_ at him, he felt in control – he felt powerful. “ _I_ am Wrathion, the Black Prince. I have every power in the world at my command - I can already play kingdoms into my hand, and can control the earth below my feet. I do not need _You_ to help me.”

With a snarl he swept his right arm up, and a large chunk of rock burst forth from the ground and smashed into Kil'ruk's side. The paragon hissed in alarm and pain as he went stumbling towards the wall.

Wrathion tried to stand as quickly as he could, but a sudden dizziness swept over his temple and he was forced back down, groaning. The initial drug Xaril had given him must have still been in his system.

He looked up as he heard hurried footsteps, and saw Xaril striding towards him. Wrathion snarled and shot a mouthful of flame at the alchemist's face, and the paragon tore back, hissing.

“Disgusting creature,” Xaril heaved, wiping a claw down his smoking face, burned faintly. Kil'ruk had caught his balance and turned with a whirl to Wrathion, and a pitch of fear tossed in the dragon's stomach as he saw the paragon grab his polearm from behind.

Maybe he hadn't thought this through.

A scream tore through the room. Wrathion jumped and glanced towards where it had come from – the tunnels – and saw - 

He frowned in confusion. A Blacktalon was standing at the entrance of the room, her black leather blending into the darkness behind her.

She bowed, turned, and took off down the hallway.

“What?!” Rik'kal exclaimed. “You let them get away?!”

“No!” Xaril snarled. “I had them under guard!”

Kil'ruk hissed. He rubbed at his head, as if stunned - whether by his possession by Y'shaarj or Wrathion's attack, Wrathion wasn't sure. He glanced at the mantid soldiers. “After it. Nothing may leave the tree.”

Four of the mantid turned and rushed out towards the tunnel with a frightening silence. The last stayed holding and guarding Sabellian, who hadn't yet moved since being smashed by the sword. His black was limp around his bowed head.

Wrathion nearly grinned. Oh, the cleverness of his Blacktalons! Of _course_ they had gotten away! He dared not glance around, and forced his wobbling smile off of his face. That would be giving the rest of them away, and he had no doubt the others were hidden inside the room.

“This is clearly a trick, Kil'ruk,” Xaril said. Wrathion felt his mouth go dry. Kil'ruk growled, but he sounded dizzy, even in the small noise. “You fool -”

A flash of black leaped from the wall and, feet feet, pummeled into Xaril's chest.

The alchemist gave a hissing wail and fell. The blur flipped and punched Kil'ruk in the face with a loud _clang_ of metal, and, swiftly, jumped from the heaving chest of the sprawled paragon and faced the two with a dagger. Xaril sprang to his feet in one fluid movement and hunched his shoulders, growling.

The blur of black stilled. Wrathion grinned wildly. Left!

Wait. No. Left. Wrathion's grin fell as Kil'ruk shook his head out from the punch and withdrew his polearm.

Two paragons against Left? Wrathion felt a flash of fear. No – wait. Three. Rik'kal bound from the opposite side of the room, quick with his small stature, and went to side-swipe the orc with his arm, but the rogue was swift. She dodged, and only twirled again out of harm's reach as Kil'ruk sluiced his weapon out in a terrible arc. The air whistled.

“Left!” Wrathion yelled out, both in alarm and in fear. “Stop!”

Left glanced back at him as Kil'ruk started forward again. They held eye-contact for a heartbeat before the orc turned back and engaged Kil'ruk and the other two paragons.

The room erupted into violence so quickly Wrathion hardly had time to take in the sudden shift before growing dizzy. Left was so quick that with every swing of Kil'ruk's weapon, every attempt to grasp her from Xaril, who was without his potions to fight, and every wild kick and lunge from Rik'kal, who had withdrawn a syringe-like tube from his armor, missed harmlessly. She was a black and green blur, untouchable as shadow and as fierce in her snarls and defense as any lioness. Wrathion had no idea how she was doing it. It was hypnotizing.

Though it hardly helped his panic dull. She could dodge as much as she'd like, but one wrong move, one slip-up, and it was over.

Wrathion tried to lurch to his feet again when two hands grabbed his shoulder and hoisted him up. A rush of dizziness swept back into his head, as the last time, and Wrathion swayed harshly to the right, his legs wobbling and his arms flailing, and nearly would have fallen if the grip on his shoulders hadn't tightened.

“C'mon, Your Majesty,” came a voice, and Wrathion glanced back to see one of his Blacktalons looking down at him – a tall fellow with brown hair and alert yellow eyes. 

“Let go of me,” Wrathion snapped. “Get Left!”

“I'm sorry, Your Majesty. Left is distractin' them for us.”

Wrathion went to retort, but the Blacktalon hoisted him up and began to half-drag, half-lead him through the room. Wrathion snarled in alarm and punched his agent in the shoulder, but the rogue hardly flinched.

“Hey! _Hey_! Let me _down_!” Wrathion was stumbling at the Blacktalon's side, but the rogue wasn't slowing down. 

The dragon snarled and glanced back. Left was moving backwards, leading Kil'ruk and Xaril towards her and _away_ from the Blacktalon and Wrathion.

Where was Rik'kal? Wrathion narrowed his eyes and swept his gaze around the room -

“The stealing of data is a capital offense in the Klaxxi!”

Wrathion looked back around with a wince. Rik'kal appeared in front of them, crouched, both hands now full with two syringe-like weapons. He cackled. “Too slow, little things!” He swiped forward with one of the odd amber-glass weapons and the Blacktalon swept back, pulling Wrathion with him. “My genetic alterations can make you faster! Let _me_ help you along!”

With his small size, Rik'kal was fast. And with Horace holding onto Wrathion, the Blacktalon was slow in dodging. Wrathion managed to twist out of the rogue's grip as the human bent down to dodge a second and third swipe from the paragon. 

Wrathion grinned at his freedom but it fell as his knees wobbled. He caught his balance at the last moment, though a sickening dizziness was whirling around his head. The drug still wasn't gone. He groaned but snarled soon after, forcing himself through it - 

And saw Xaril leaping right at him.

Wrathion jolted with alarm. At the last moment he transformed into his true form, folding his wings and smacking down into the ground with an _oomph_. Xaril sailed over him and landed on the opposite side of the room, screeching and hissing in aggravation.

“Hah!” Wrathion grinned and scurried up to all fours, lifted his wings and jumped back through the air - but another wave of nausea swept into his throat and Wrathion fluttered uselessly. His wings began to buckle as the numbness from the drug curled into his wings, and he landed again, hard, on the rock ground. 

He was too stunned to move. He blinked and looked up slowly, groaning, and saw Left still sparring with Kil'ruk. Wrathion attempted to get up, but all of his limbs wobbled and he fell again.

“Grrrrah,” came a hiss from above, and Wrathion tried to scurry out of the way as Xaril smashed his large clawed foot down on him. He whined in pain as the paragon pushed down and, growling, tried to send a bolt of fire from his mouth, but found his throat dry and his head ringing. His temple began to beat with the terrible pain again.

Not now! Wrathion growled uselessly and flailed his claws at Xaril's talons.

Xaril hummed appreciatively. “Yes, my alchemy is very good, you see,” the paragon hissed, “mmmm, to shift into a smaller form was an unwise idea. Now the dosage is three times as powerful to your smaller size!” He pushed down his claw, and Wrathion wheezed. “Y'shaarj may thirst for your blood and power, but we Klaxxi far outweigh your -”

A burst of flame ricocheted off of Xaril's chest, and he leaped back with a sudden garbled screech; it smelled of burnt paper and muscle in the sudden dry smoke. 

Wrathion shifted back into human form immediately and stood, relieved, but his dizziness didn't leave him. He glanced over blearily, chest pained from being crushed, and saw the regular mantid soldier that had guarded Sabellian sprawled dead against the floor, and Sabellian himself free, leaning heavily on Y'shaarj's mural and bleeding against the ancient stone. 

The elder dragon lowered his hand that had cast the spell and wrapped it around his torso, pushing back at the cloth near his bloodied shoulder. He fixed Wrathion with a pained but aggravated look that the Black Prince had little time or energy to decipher, because his head started to spin so quickly he almost fell over. 

Wrathion snarled and clutched his temple. Flashes of images sparked at his mind's eye, but they were so quick and so frazzled he couldn't understand what they were. He coughed harshly and felt blood spatter from his mouth.

A sudden grip yanked at Wrathion's shoulder. Wrathion jumped, opened his eyes, and dropped his hand. He pushed back against it instinctually, until he saw who it was.

“Come, Your Majesty,” snarled Left. She was bleeding heavily from her chest, where a long, narrow slash had ripped through the leather, and she pulled him close to her as she half-ran, half-walked with his weight. He stumbled beside her.

Oh, gods, it was so _dizzy_. Everything was beginning to blur again and though the flashes of images had stopped, his head still rang. Wrathion groaned as his vision swayed. What had Xaril said? He suddenly couldn't remember. 

But it was _loud_. Yells of the angry paragons and the fighting of the other Blacktalon echoed through the chamber.

A powerful buzz that shook Wrathion's teeth swept above them, and in front of Left landed Kil'ruk. The paragon looked relatively unharmed, but his weapon was stained with Left's blood.

“You are quick,” Kil'ruk complimented idly. “Yet I am quicker.”

Left snarled. She let go of Wrathion to face Kil'ruk again. Wrathion stumbled but caught himself, though his head swayed from side to side.

Wrathion turned to watch Left fight, unable to do anything but stand there – and noticed an extra dagger strapped to Left's waist, unused as she went one-handed. 

He stared at it, how it swayed back and forth with his fogging vision, her own movements. The screaming and fighting was a dull roar now. His mind hyperfocused on the weapon.

He realized Sabellian was still near the mural. 

\- Sabellian was _right there,_ only feet away to Wrathion's right, now.

Wrathion _could_ do something.

He stared at the dagger.

_“Once both our cuffs are broken, and we are both out of this loathsome tree,_ __then_ _ _we can_ __fairly_ _ _kill one another. Agreed?”_

_“Fine.”_

Wrathion was never one to keep promises.

Some instinctual part of him took over, a part that saw his chance and a part that would take it. He remembered Fahrad – how much he had wanted to keep him alive, and how he'd realized he couldn't. This was his job – his duty. He could not allow mercy.

Hands that seemed not his own shot out and grabbed the black knife from Left's belt.

The screaming sharpened in one single breath, and Wrathion winced at the sudden assault, the sudden clarity, as he twirled around. 

Sabellian saw him. Then the dagger. The elder dragon snarled weakly in alarm and tried to pull himself out of the way -

Wrathion drove the dagger home. The point of the weapon sluiced through the hard, wet flesh and skewered through into Sabellian's gut, right below his lungs. 

Sabellian inhaled sharply and then choked, the sound wet in his throat. Wrathion watched the dragon's eyes narrow and his face contort with pain before he lurched forward and dug the dagger deeper, twisting slightly, snatching a hold of Sabellian's arm for balance and leverage, and was mesmerized by how he found no joy in it. He scowled, teeth bloody, almost desperately up at the elder dragon, and his hand shook upon the hilt.

Sabellian coughed and spluttered as looked down at him. They stared at one another for a second, then two, then three, until the only sound to Wrathion was Sabellian's ragged breathing and his own wild heart beating.

“Truly,” Sabellian coughed, his voice strained and hissing, his lips wobbling into a sneering, pained smile, “a black dragon.”

Wrathion stared and felt his mouth go dry and sour with bile. His chest heaved.

Someone grabbed Wrathion from behind and with a forceful yank pulled him away; Wrathion and the dagger were forced back and around, and he dropped the bloody weapon with a choked, surprised inhale and stared at it wide-eyed, as if unsure of what he'd just done, before the grip on his arm pulled back again.

“ _Concentrate_ , Prince!” Left growled, and he snapped from his reverie. It was she who was pulling at him again, and looking around, blurry-eyed, Wrathion didn't see the Wind-reaver. 

He glanced back at Sabellian again as Left dragged him. The dragon was clutching at his stab wound, his head bent, and was slowly sliding down the mural and leaving behind trails of blood on Y'shaarj's open maws. He looked up through his fallen bangs as Wrathion stared back at him, and it was the pained, hateful glower of his orange eyes that was burned across Wrathion's vision as Left pulled him from the room and out of sight of the black dragon Wrathion had just murdered.

The rest of their escape was a blur. Wrathion felt a horrible numbness, though his heart beat as if it were ready to claw from his chest, and at some point, he transformed into his whelp form and latched onto Left's shoulder, tail curled around her neck, but he hardly remembered consciously doing so. The other Blacktalon was running behind them, and he could hear through his shocked haze the screams of the angered paragons behind them.

They finally made it to the main chamber. Wrathion hardly noticed it. He looked wide-eyed, straight ahead, dizzy from the sudden light shining from the large, circular room after coming out of the darkness of the tunnels.

But it wasn't as quiet as before. There was noise and yells and fighting, and the clash of steel upon the rock of the amber reverberated through the chamber.

“Here! Over here!” Yelled a voice. Wrathion looked but didn't really see. It was the Blacktalon who had screamed, and around her were the mantid she'd led away – and Shado-pan. Wrathion stared. He recognized Fei Li with her red fur and twin ponytails and her tall blue staff, which cracked at a mantid's head and sent him sprawling.

“What are the Shado-pan doing here?” Left demanded as she and Horace bolted over. Wrathion held on limply. 

“They were about to survey Sik'vess' interior,” Alexia said. “I nearly ran right into them in the chamber. They offered to help. I have someone waiting outside -”

“Shut up and go,” Left yelled above the din. A sudden hissing scream tore back from where they had just came from, and Wrathion winced, recognizing Xaril's voice. The paragons were catching up. 

Wrathion felt himself start to slink away – not fainting, but falling back into himself. Without comment, without movement, he watched as if he were some spectator as Left and the two Blacktalons slid around the fighting Shado-pan and mantid and up the broken stairs. There was some unseen explosion somewhere far off, and the tree began to shudder and groan around them. The Shado-pan must have killed the four mantid, for the six pandaren swept up the steps, and the Blacktalons hurried after them.

The tree groaned and rumbled again. They burst through the crumbled archway as one of the paragons screamed again, closer.

“Go! Go!” Fei Li was shouting, and the Shado-pan mounted their snarling tigers and the Blacktalons did the same, hopping on behind. 

They began to lope off at a great speed. Wrathion clung to Left's shoulder and watched as the archway of Sik'vess rumbled and finally collapsed, closing off the entrance - and with a mighty groan the entire tree shuddered, bits and chunks of amber falling from its form, and the stench of decay wafted heavily through the ozone-charged air.

The Shado-pan spurred their tigers, and Wrathion buried his head into Left's neck and closed his eyes, Sabellian's blood on his claws wet and hot.

\---

_The creature was the size of a mountain: a rippling mass of flesh and sinew and anger, with fists so large they could pummel through rock with the slightest glance of its fingers and teeth so sharp and wide they were like the points of swords._

_They had had no idea what it was when it came down the Valley, bellowing a challenge with its name – Gruul – a yell that had echoed along the spikes as he neared. They'd watched him come, finally meeting him in the center to push him back from the younger dragons, drakes, and hatchlings of the brood – Samia had looked at the_ _black spikes jutting from his red-clay skin, the dark tattoos encircling his muscled forearms and hunched, thick shoulders, the great metal cuffs adorned with toothy skulls that encircled his meaty wrists._

_The monster had raised up from its gorilla-like lean, and stood tall with a roar. The sound reverberated across the valley in a terrible echo, an earthquake of noise._

_Samia's family had attacked again and again and again, but with every dive, every claw and swipe and bite, the monster only swatted them away like flies. His skin was as tough as aged leather and as thick as chain-mail. Even their flames could hardly permeate the beast's hide; the blackened scorch marks dotting the monster's skin was a testament to their failure._

_And the monster wasn't stopping. Gruul inched closer and closer to where the younger dragons and drakes and hatchlings of the brood were, only stumbling back when one of Samia's brothers, sisters, or broodparents tackled into his front and pushed him back, an attack that was hard on their bodies, shaking their bones and bruising them wholly._

_Samia felt fear she had never felt before, and a helplessness that threatened to fold down at her wings and make her plummet hopelessly to the ground. Her family was injured heavily, but they weren't stopping._

_So neither was she. She swallowed her fear and dove down through the red nether-streams, their energy sizzling across her black scales, as she careened downwards. She smashed her tail against Gruul's single, white eye and twisted out of the way before he could lift up and bite her through._

_Kesia was tearing at the monster's shoulders. Samia's mother was a blur of unstoppable motion, a berserking frenzy that was almost as terrifying as Gruul himself. Samia's clutch-brothers and sisters – Tavorian, Cyntharia, Orian, and Hytheria – were attacking from each side, as Samia was, and her broodfather Sabellian continually raked his flame across the beast's hands and face._

_But nothing was working._

_And when Gruul reached out with a speed that should not have been capable with his girth and casually plucked Tavorian from the air, none of them could do anything to stop him, even as Gruul squeezed and Samia could hear the cracking of bone._

_Sabellian tore up and dug his teeth and claws into the monster's wrist, but the beast only reached out and pulled him off like a mosquito – and with a mighty throw he whirled Sabellian away, and her father toppled, wings askew._

_Kesia was the second to attack. The monster looked at her, snarled, and, with a violent flick of his hand, smashed Tavorian into the spikes to his left to free both hands to face the next attacker._

_The spikes impaled him through the center of his belly. His wings had gone wide to attempt to stop himself, but now spikes tore through the fine red webbings and held him there. One spike jut through his throat._

_Samia stared in horror. Her brother gave a garbled choking sound and shuddered. Before she knew what she was doing she dived down towards him, and as she flew close she smelled and saw the blood leaking and spurting from his mouth in every heaving breath he struggled for as he choked and died upon his own fluids._

_His eyes locked on her desperately, pleading for help, but they soon grew dull and his choking stopped, and his shuddering limbs went still._

_His eyes remained open. They stared passed her._

_“Samia, move!” Kesia snarled, and the wild scream ripped her from her shock and she dropped – just in time, for the monster's palm smashed to where she had just been. She swerved around and bolted out of the way. A second later, and she would have been skewered through as Tavorian had._

_It happened again. And again. And again. Samia watched Cyntharia die next on the spikes, heavily thrown to land high above in the mountains. She'd nearly dodged._

_Hytheria died in the same manner Tavorian had, flung onto the spikes as an after-thought._

_Gruul made a spectacle out of Orian. He clutched him with both hands and impaled him, vertically, from the back, facing the valley._

_Their screams and garbles and choking, suffocating breaths full of blood echoed down the valley. It was the stuff of nightmares – how their limbs jerked, how desperately, weakly, they tried to pull themselves from the spikes, how blood dribbled down their jaws, their stomachs, their throats, their wings, with each puncture point._

_And Samia could do nothing._

_She felt a numbness, a shocked dullness that rang in her ears and pulled down at her wings. Her entire clutch was dead and dying._

_But she could hear her mother and father screaming in such a way she had never heard anyone scream before. It was anger and hatred and pain and agony and grief all mixed into one terrible, awful sound, and it built and built and built, and, gods, there was blood everywhere, her siblings' eyes were still open – was Orian's arm still shuddering?_

_She landed near him, tried so hard to tear him off, unaware and unconscious of what she was doing, only aware that she felt nothing but a shocked dullness, though her movements were desperate and jerky -_

Samia awoke with a start and a snarl.

The world was dark around her. Her heart beat fast in her chest, thrumming like a cage animal against her ribs, as she looked around with narrowed eyes, her nostrils flared and smoking. 

There were no spiked mountains; no siblings impaled upon the rocks. There was no mountain of flesh and no screams of the dying. There was only a small, deserted island, the warm sand beneath her smooth scales and the black ocean that stretched on endlessly from all directions, its small cresting caps peaking with white starlight that winked above. Around her were the sleeping, glowing forms of the nether-drakes, and the black, still bodies of her brother and sister to the left of the small fire that burned in the center of the group's ring in which they slept. 

Samia watched them, pupils narrowed to their smallest slits, to make sure they were breathing. It looked like they weren't. Her already-gripped claws tightened against the sand -

Oh. There was a breath from Vaxian, and there, a breath from Pyria. Samia sighed out hard and relaxed her grip and gaze. She paused to watch for a moment before looking away and closing her eyes to the night sky. Her erect fins bent, relaxing, though there was a tension in her folded wings that refused to go away, as if the muscles there remembered their failure in her dream.

A dream. That's all it had been. Samia opened her eyes balefully, and smoke curled slowly from her deflated nostrils. A nightmare, more like, she thought, smacking her tongue, sour with the faint taste of bile, against the top of her rough mouth. Like always. She stretched out her claws and gave a subdued, grumbling yawn - but sleep had fully fled her, and her wings had yet to relax. She wouldn't be dozing off again any time soon.

Samia sighed again, and lifted her head, surveying the island. It was small, hardly a mile long or a mile wide, and without little decoration: a single clump of palm trees lay nestled in the center, and an outcrop of rocks off to the north tumbled into the sea to nestle themselves against the high reef that jutted out from the ocean before sloping into the black abyss below. They had found it when flying over; their trip to the Dark Portal had not been superfluous without incident, and Samia was glad that the beginnings of the flight in Azeroth had begun well. They'd stopped here, far from the coast of Westfall, in order to grant themselves a decent sleep for the hard flight ahead of them.

Samia wouldn't lie to herself – stepping across the Dark Portal, the great demon-like dragon head and the hooded masters flanking the towering arch watching her, had been more than nerve-wracking. It had felt like her heart had been ready to leap from her throat, and her blood had boiled sourly with fear, though she had looked straight-faced and stoic. She couldn't allow her own fright scare her brother and sister, and could not look weak in front of the nether-drakes, who had nothing to fear beyond the Portal. There were no archaic Gods waiting for them, as they were for Samia and her siblings.

But she had heard and felt nothing after stepping through the warping, screaming vortex, save for a churning in her stomach, a side-effect from the transport: no whispers, no visions of blood and death. Nothing but the distant crackle of lightning that rumbled beyond the dusty Blasted Lands and the cries of the two-headed condors circling above.

She'd realized her father had stood where she had, however long ago. Had he been scared, as she was? 

A loud snort caught her attention, ripping her from her musing. Samia glanced over at the fire – and stared, eyes going wide with surprise. Misha was sitting by the flame, ripping apart what looked to be a tuna in her great furred claws. Faint spatterings of blood stained the white sand below her legs.

“Hey!” She whispered hoarsely. “How did you get here?”

Misha paused, looked up, and swallowed the tail of the fish. Her gullet bobbed. She snorted at Samia and returned to the remains of the carcass.

Samia squinted. Rexxar had said said the bear would somehow _follow_ them across the ocean -...

Where _was_ Rexxar, anyway? Samia frowned and looked around. He'd been by the fire when she'd fallen asleep, having volunteered for first watch -

She stopped. There he was, on the western side of the island, with Leokk the wyvern lying next to him, pawing idly at the water. She did not see his hawk.

It was as if he knew she was staring at him. The half-orc sighed out heavily and turned away from the water, patting his wyvern's thick mane as he nodded to Samia. His eyes were alarmingly grim beneath his ragged wolf-pelt mask.

“Evening,” she murmured as Rexxar moved over to the flame. Leokk padded after him, and three fish, black in the darkness, were stuffed in his fanged mouth. He dropped them at th half-orc's feet and plopped down next to Misha with a content grumble.

“Bad dreams,” Rexxar replied, glancing at Samia not with accusation or pity but with a simple, casual look that made Samia relax, though his words did not. 

“Yes,” she admitted, tapping her claws against the sand. She frowned, slightly annoyed. “I was making noise.”

“No. Moving.” He sat near the fire, crossing his legs. Leokk inched closer to him and sat his chin on the hunter's knee, and the large beast's eyes closed. “I am sorry they've woken you.”

Samia grunted. She glanced around at the sleeping dragons again. None of them stirred. Slowly, she looked back to Rexxar. The hunter was smoothing down Leokk's ragged mane and staring into the fire with a faraway look. Something was on his mind.

“Rexxar,” Samia said, and the half-orc glanced up slightly; his eyes were dark beneath the mask. “How long has it been since you've been back on Azeroth?”

Rexxar paused, his hand stilling on the wyvern's mane. “A long time,” he answered gruffly. He pat Leokk, then withdrew his hand. “I returned briefly before the Cataclysm shook the world, but even then my trip was brief. I had no reason to linger. The Horde was not my home.” He considered quietly. “But it has already been three or four years, since then,” Rexxar said with a nod. 

“You went back before?” Samia said, surprised. She hardly recalled him mentioning it – or, rather, Sabellian mentioning it. Her father had always passed on what Rexxar had told him to her. 

“Yes,” Rexxar grumbled. He plucked one of the fish Leokk had caught and calmly skewered it through with a dry stick at the side of the fire, and placed it above the flames, all in practiced, thoughtless moves. “A mere week. Nothing more.” He glanced at his axes, which he had since taken from his belt and laid off to the side, perhaps when Samia had been asleep, plagued by nightmares. “It wasn't my time to return. There was nothing for me there.”

Samia wrinkled her nose. He sounded a bit bitter, but she wasn't about to pry into why.

“And you, Samia?” Rexxar asked, and turned his head to her. “You have stayed on Outland much longer than I.”

Samia nodded. She kneaded her claws into the sand and glanced at the fire, at the hot yellow flames flickering within, eating at the white-hot driftwood. 

“It's been a long time,” Samia confirmed, murmuring. She frowned, and her fins fell flat, slowly, against her serpentine neck. “With good reason, I guess.”

Rexxar turned the fish over the fire. “You have not heard the Old Gods, I trust.”

“No,” Samia said sharply, then realized her harsh tone and sighed out hard. “No,” she repeated again, more quietly. “I haven't.” She glanced to the side at Vaxian and Pyria, and sighed again. Pyria had seemed fidgety, flighty, earlier – and Vaxian, stoic as always, unreadable in his blank expression. But they had not heard Them, either, and for that she was glad and wildly relieved. “I just hope it lasts.”

Rexxar nodded in understanding. He turned the fish one last time then pulled back his hand, where it returned to Leokk's mane. Misha watched from the side, having finished her own meal – now stained red upon her muzzle – with a lidded, annoyed expression to her yellowed eyes. “Do you think it's lasted for your father, after all of these weeks?” The hunter asked, and Samia paused.

“I hope so,” she said. One of the nether-drakes snorted and shifted, reminding her that the rest were sleeping, and that she should lower her voice. “But I'm sure he and my siblings are alright,” Samia said, this time more quietly. Samia glanced at the fire and shuffled her wings. Did she really believe that, a voice prodded, or was it just a lie to herself? A sourness laced her tongue, as bitter a taste as when waking from the dream.

“Mm.” Rexxar locked his jaw and scratched idly at the slope of his neck. Bits of sand from his fingers stuck to his skin, though he made no move to brush it away as he lowered his hand. 

They went quiet. Samia looked out to the ocean, at the gentle waves lapping at the shore. She could not see the coast of Westfall, far beyond the starry horizon, and, growing bored of looking at the dearth of black, lifted her eyes to the sky. A thousand suns winked back at her, and the two moons of Azeroth – a sight she had not seen in so long, it made her heart ache – were nestled to the west. Samia wondered if she could see Outland from here, but dismissed the thought immediately. Even if she could, it would no doubt be a simple speck in the blackness, a floating, broken chunk, a worthless excuse for a planet – if one could even call it that, anymore.

Samia sighed. She looked away from the thousands of stars, dizzy from their impossible numbers. When she had been a slave, a servant to her Masters, she had never taken in the beauty of the night sky, or the sea, or the coast – had never thought the rolling, golden plains of Westfall could be beautiful, or the thunderstorms of the Blasted Lands were as terrifyingly alluring as the red nether-streams of Blade's Edge. 

Now she did. Samia worked her jaw back and forth and set her gaze to the fire. She recalled how wary her father had always been to speak of this world, how unwilling. This place was a delight – fresh with life and lands and sights far beyond what Outland possessed. It was intoxicating. Every bit of it. 

-... Intoxicating to the point of danger. Samia crinkled her nose. This place may have been a wonder, may make her chest hurt and her eyes shine, but it was no friend to her. It may look enchanted, but beneath her feet was a sludge, an ancient evil, and it waited.

How willingly she'd gone into this venus fly trap. She only hoped her father hadn't been ensnared by it, already.

Samia shook her head and turned her attention to Rexxar, annoyed at herself. Thinking so pessimistically would get her nowhere, and if she knew anything, her thoughts would leak into her actions.

“How do you plan to track my father, Rexxar?” Samia murmured. Rexxar was taking the fish off of the fire and pulling it apart in three clean slices, his hands sticky with rainbow scales. “I have no knowledge of Pandaria. It's been lost for thousands of years.”

Rexxar nodded. He handed a slice of fish to Leokk, kept one for himself, and silently pushed the last chunk over to Samia. She blinked, surprised by the kind gesture, and took it closer with a paw.

“It will be difficult,” Rexxar admitted. “But I assume we'll track where this Wrathion is, first. We can only guess that your father will be close.”

“And if he isn't?”

Rexxar hummed thoughtfully. “Then we'll take a different path. I know little of Pandaria, as you do – but I will do the best I can.”

Samia nodded. 

“How has he been, the Baron?” Rexxar asked suddenly, and Samia blinked. “Before this endeavor.”

“Oh – fine.” Samia brought her slice of fish closer and nipped at the white flesh. “More or less the same, I guess. I think he missed you.” She snorted in amusement. 

Rexxar smiled a grim but amused smile. They settled into a comfortable silence, and Samia laid her head down on the warm sand after she finished the small meal. 

It was still Rexxar's watch. She should try to sleep again, she knew, but she could feel the faint lingering of her nightmare – her memory – tingling at the back of her head.

She sighed and closed her eyes all the same – but did not fall asleep again.

\---

Wrathion clutched the warm porcelain mug in his hands with a grip that shook as much as his nerves.

He sat in one of the many cream-colored tents of the Garrison: small but spacious enough for a small table to sit at, and decorated with honey-gold fringe that flickered with the glow of the lit lantern that Wrathion busied himself staring wide-eyed at.

The black tea in the mug sloshed and shuddered as Wrathion shook. He sat at the table, his back erect, and his hands were stained dry with blood.

Beside him knelt a pandaren medic, cloaked in the dark garb of the Shado-pan. She was tending to a cut on his thigh, having patched up and mended the rest of his numerous bruises and slashes – nothing serious, she had said to Left, just a half hour ago, but healing was always good for fighting off infection. Left said hardly hesitated in giving her approval, at that, as Wrathion was in no state to speak for himself.

Wrathion didn't even feel the cuts. He did not feel their pain, the brusies' burns: he felt far into himself, and there was not even a dull buzzing in his ears. There was just a glassy silence and the faint swishing of the cold tea in his hands. 

He'd felt like this since Left had ushered him in the tent and sat him down, shoving the tea in his hands that he still hadn't drank.

“Please try to stand still,” pleaded the pandaren. 

Wrathion nodded deafly at the medic; the pandaren returned to slipping a slim piece of gauze over his thigh over the cut. His shaking didn't lessen.

“Well, that should do it for you physically,” the medic said with a sigh, standing upright. She was rather tall, much taller than Wrathion himself, had he been standing, and her thick red-ringed tail swayed as she bowed slightly to him. “You all were very lucky, I'm told. It was good the scouts were so close! … Though it's unfortunate they were investigating the border when you were captured.” She hummed thoughtfully. “At least they were able to help.”

Wrathion didn't hear her.

The pandaren seemed to realize he either didn't hear or didn't care, because she sighed and then shrugged. “You should clean yourself,” she added, eying his bloody hands pointedly.

Wrathion did not look at her. He watched the flicker of the lantern.

“Mm,” he muttered.

“The tea will soothe your nerves.”

“Mm.”

The pandaren pursed her lips. She hesitated, raised a hand, but with a sigh lowered it again and placed it on her hip. 

“Niuzao give you strength,” the medic murmured quietly. She gave a slight bow of her head, frowned, and, after picking up the rest of her supplies scattered amongst the floor of the tent, exited.

It was not immediately after when Left swooped into the room. Her movements were jerky, stoic, as stiff as an automaton's. Wrathion averted his gaze almost guiltily, though he didn't understand why.

“My Prince,” Left greeted gruffly. Wrathion nodded in greeting – and, remembering his unfinished tea, cautiously inched his fingers upwards around the rim, as if trying to hide the fact he hadn't drank. 

Left glanced down, anyway. She frowned largely; her tusks went momentarily lopsided as she hesitated. But much to Wrathion's relief she gave no aggravated quip, and instead relaxed and made her way to stand in front of him, across the other side of the table. 

Even without glancing up to look at her directly, Wrathion could see that she had been mended, as he had: a long cream bandage wrapped around her upper left arm, and where Kil'ruk had sliced across her chest, a thick gauze had been plastered. Besides the bruises, she looked relatively fine. Wrathion was glad for it.

“You shake,” Left commented. Wrathion licked his lips idly. He rubbed one of his thumbs – even _that_ was quivering, shaky – along the porcelain hold of the cup, shaped into the gentle curve of a cloud serpent. It was beautiful craftsmanship, he thought. 

Wrathion said nothing; he only lowered his eyes to look at the inky black tea. Little wisps of thin leaves swirled at the bottom, and it smelled of sugar and fresh earth.

“Did the pandaren not heal you?” Left asked, growling, and Wrathion looked up. He blinked once, hard, then shook his head.

“Oh – she did. Honestly, Left, I am _fine.”_ His voice was a croak. Wrathion waved a hand loosely to the bench across from him. “Sit.”

Left hesitated as Wrathion put his hand back on the mug. 

“Just because you are my guard, Left, does not mean you are not allowed to sit. I'd like you to.”

The orc stared at him. Wrathion stared back dully before looking away again, staring into the depths of his black tea. He shuddered violently before going into the regular rhythm of idle shakes.

The bench squeaked and shifted as Left sat, albeit awkwardly, across from him. Wrathion peered above the rim of his mug. She was sitting as stiffly as she'd stood; her arms were crossed against the table, and her hands flexed into fists.

Wrathion stared at her hands. The dull buzzing in his head returned, and the glassy window in his eyes slid back up. He retreated willingly back into himself in the silence.

“My Prince, are you alright?” 

Left's voice was a murmur through his haze. Wrathion glanced up, blinked once, and said nothing.

“My Prince?”

“What?”

Left frowned, aggravated. “ _Are you alright_?”

“Yes,” Wrathion said automatically. 

Left stared at him. Her blue eyes sharpened into narrowed slits.

“You're going into shock, my Prince,” she said after a moment of silence. 

“Shock,” he repeated dully. 

Left stood abruptly. She snapped a glare at the entrance of the tent.

“Stay here,” she grumbled, and Wrathion nodded dumbly as the orc swept outside.

Wrathion went back into staring at his tea. He swirled it around again and watched the small leaves inside sift and twirl around like in a wind. 

From the corner of his eyes he saw the blood on his thumb, resting upon the rim of the mug. He hardly noticed it, at first, until his eyes, as if on their own, locked upon it. The dried, chalky redness held his attention. He stared at it vacantly, unaware his shaking was multiplying.

“There's not much I can do,” came a voice from the entrance, though Wrathion hardly heard it. “He simply has to keep warm and stay sitting. The smell of the tea will help calm him. It is medicine for the mind.”

There was an annoyed snarl and some reply, but Wrathion didn't hear it. He was too focused on the blood.

For a brief flash he felt the feel of the dagger in his hand and the give of flesh beneath its point as he drove it home beneath Sabellian's lungs, and he could hear the elder dragon suck in a choking, wet breath. Wrathion swallowed, his throat bobbing. A cold sweat began to prickle at his forehead.

There was another flash of memory – but this one, less defined, less remembered. There was darkness and decay, and death all around him. A monster -

Wrathion inhaled sharply. His hold on the mug tightened into a death grip.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, but Wrathion didn't jump. He couldn't look away from the blood -

“My Prince,” Left said, as if from faraway, “it's alright.”

One half of Wrathion's attention concentrated on the voice while the other remained on his bloodied hand. Left's grip on his shoulder tightened and squeezed, but it was not an unkind gesture. He swallowed hard and licked his lips.

The grip shifted. From above the rim of the mug Wrathion could just make out Left shifting so she was sitting across from him again, her hand still placed on his shoulder. She leaned forward across the table to be closer.

“Wrathion,” Left said, and Wrathion jumped, some part of him surprised she'd used his name, “look up.”

Wrathion ground his teeth. A dull roar had begun to buzz in his inner ear, and his heart felt as if it was slowing. The cold sweat at his forehead now swept down his face and shoulders.

Left moved her hand so it came to rest below his chin. Slowly but firmly she forced his head up and his gaze away from the blood. Wrathion stared both passed her and at her with a vacant look of half-consciousness.

Left dropped her hand. Wrathion didn't drop his head down. Again with slow, firm movements the orc gripped the mug in his hand and raised it up to his face, careful to gently move his bloody fingers from his eyesight. The calming smell of the tea wafted up towards him, and his shaking lessened a fraction.

“Good,” Left grunted. “Stay like that.”

Wrathion blinked. Left stared right back at him.

How long Wrathion sat there immovable save for his shakes, he had little idea. But slowly the dull roar in his ears lessened into the quiet buzzing, and his shudders quietly swept down into the occasional shake. The smell of the tea, the sugar and earth and floral scent, was hypnotizing.

After what seemed like hours, Wrathion blinked lopsidedly and, his head still a bit fuzzy, focused in on the orc. “Left?”

“You are shifting in and out of shock, my Prince,” Left said. “You need to relax. Breathe. The tea will _apparently_ help you.” The orc shot a glare at the entrance of the tent before turning her attention to Wrathion again. 

“Shock?” Wrathion tilted his head, his black hair falling across his eyelashes. This conversation felt vaguely familiar. “Why? I feel fine.”

Left raised a brow at him, unconvinced. “You've been through much,” she explained, and she lowered her voice. “I would be worried if you did not react from it.”

Wrathion frowned. He shuddered once then glanced at the tea in his hands as if really noticing it for the first time; a sudden thirst dried at his tongue. With a quick flick of fire in his palms he heated the brew and took a careful sip. It tasted just as it smelled, and he sighed, closing his eyes and swallowing noisily.

Minutes passed in silence. Wrathion could physically and mentally feel himself coming back from the place he had retreated to in the recesses of his mind. The buzz in his ears fell away; the sheen across his eyes dispersed. He opened his eyes and saw clearly – though he was unequivocally exhausted. Every bit of bone, muscle, sinew, felt drawn out and beaten, and sagged against his body. He took in a deep breath and exhaled shakily.

“Left,” he said, his voice still a croak, “I'd like to wash this off my hands, now.”

The orc understood. Without raising from her sitting position she leaned off to the side as Wrathion stared straight ahead, and lifted up a small bowl filled with water and silk cloth, perhaps left there by the pandaren medic. She pushed it over to him silently, and, in his own quietness, Wrathion set the mug on his table, grabbed the cloth and, trying not to look down at the deed, began to wash the blood from his fingers. The water was lukewarm.

“You did the right thing,” Left grumbled. Wrathion didn't need to ask what she was talking about. He _mm_ 'd noncommittally as the water sloshed and stared intently at the opposite side of the tent. “This would have ended worse than it had, my Prince.”

“It might have,” Wrathion conceded. His voice was quiet and horase but thoughtful. He moved the soft cloth over his crusted claws. He frowned, his lips puckering. One of his sharp canines bit down at his lower lip as he scrunched his eyebrows together. “He helped me.”

Left looked at him silently. She gave nothing in the way of emotion.

“I don't know why,” Wrathion continued, his voice still nothing but a murmur, “but he did.” He finally glanced down at his hands. They were clean, washed of the blood – but now the clear water was foggy with red, and he looked away quickly. Shame and frustration burned at his throat. Why was this affecting him so much? 

Was the shame at himself for feeling this way, or shame for what he'd done?

He pulled his hands from the water and flicked the excess from his fingers off to the side as Left watched him. The orc looked to be considering her answer.

Wrathion didn't allow her time to give one. “I was so _close_ to giving in, Left,” he said, his frustration showing in the well of his tone. “I don't understand how or why, but I was.” He grit his teeth in a scowl. His good right hand curled and uncurled into a semi-fist. “How could I – how could that happen to _me?_ I'm not supposed to give in to _anything_ like that!” Wrathion paused to huff. 

“It's no fault of yours, my Prince,” Left said sternly. “Whatever they did with the sonar is at fault. It was their plan the entire time.”

Wrathion frowned. His sudden anger deflated, and he unclenched his jaw and fingers. “I guess,” he murmured. He looked at her. “But I can hardly remember what it even showed me.”

“That must be a good thing.”

Wrathion's frown deepened. He looked away. “Mostly,” Wrathion agreed. “All I remember are... _flashes_ of images. Mostly colors, now. Feelings.” But even now he struggled to recall even that. They were slowly slinking away, but some part of him was telling him that they were important for him to remember. 

It was impossible to, though. And even if he could recall them easily, he knew they were dark and would give him fear.

“The alchemist said you went off the boundaries,” Left said. Wrathion nodded. He remembered Xaril saying that. “What did you do?”

Wrathion grinned wryly, though it was a tired gesture. “If I may be _honest_ , Left – I... really have little idea.” He looked at her and shrugged. “Whatever happened, it was no conscious choice of mine.”

Left studied him, then nodded. Wrathion wiped the remaining water off of his hands and onto his trousers, then placed his arms crossed on the table. His shaking was nearly gone – outwardly. He glanced at the bloody water again.

“But Sabellian did help me,” Wrathion repeated. “He tore me out of the trance and pushed back Xaril. A moment more and I would have been... been _food_ for Y'shaarj to drink from.” He glared at the water. Why did his thoughts keep coming back to this? Wrathion took the mug of tea back into his hands and drank, but did not look away from the bowl. “But I – I did do the right thing. You just said it yourself.” He glanced at her quickly, almost desperate with the swift movement. “Didn't I?” He continued quickly, as if trying to convince himself, “I simply saw my chance and took it in the chaos!”

“Yes,” Left said immediately. “Think of what would happen if you'd left him alive, my Prince. How many others would die? Who else would come to harm?”

Wrathion thought of Right and winced. He nodded and set his mug down again. “Yes. Of course,” he murmured. “And – well. Even if it was _not_ the right thing, it was the _best_ thing for me to do.” He tried to smile his smug smile but the gesture was forced and strained, and it swept from his face a heartbeat later. “The best thing for me.”

Left said nothing. Wrathion finished his tea and pushed the mug away from him. He sighed tiredly, then yawned, his sharp teeth flashing. 

“At least this entire fiasco is _over_ ,” Wrathion finally said. His tone was as forced as his smile had been, but something desperate was goading his voice, some need to convince himself that he had done well with his choices. “We no longer have to worry about _Sabellian_.” He huffed and rolled back his shoulders. “His children... another matter entirely. Once we arrive back at the Veiled Stair, I'll send for champions to finish the job. Hopefully they'll be more able than my own _agents_.” He frowned, annoyed, as he was reminded of their failure in Blade's Edge. “Any word from the survivors, by the way?”

“No, my Prince. Nothing.”

“Mm. Oh, well.” He uncrossed his arms and leaned back in his seat, stretching and arcing his back like a cat. 

“My Prince – I have a question, if you'll allow it.”

“What? Oh, yes, go on.” He waved a hand dismissively then stretched his arms above his head, grumbling contently.

“You wanted to keep Sabellian alive, beforehand, for however little amount of time. Why?”

Wrathion paused in his stretch. He opened his eyes and lowered his hands back to the table.

“Well -” Wrathion started awkwardly, drumming one of his hand's fingers on the table, “well, I _had_ wanted to ask him some questions about Outland. I did send that initial Blacktalon to scour information from the planet about the Burning Legion, you know. And who's better to ask than a resident?” He shrugged. “It never hurts to gather information from _every_ source. But you know that, Left, of course. You're an excellent rogue.”

Left stared at him. Wrathion felt his smile wobble. “What?” 

“That's it?” Left asked gruffly, and Wrathion glared.

“What do you mean, 'that's it?' Of course it is!”

Left squinted. “I don't mean to be rude, your Majesty, but that sounds like a false answer.”

Wrathion's glare deepened. He opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again.

“Oh, what do _you_ care, Left? It's none of your business,” Wrathion finally snapped defensively.

“I only want to understand the person I'm guarding with my life,” Left said pointedly.

Wrathion realized his words had come out too harsh. He took a breath and forced himself to relax, though he looked away from her and rapped his fingers again on the table for two beats before pausing.

“You know,” Wrathion mused, “I nearly kept Fahrad alive.”

Left studied him. Wrathion wasn't sure if he was relieved she let no piece of emotion lift onto her face, or unnerved by it – she wasn't as open as Anduin Wrynn. Not by any means.

“But you didn't,” Left finally said, her voice a bit husky.

“No,” Wrathion agreed. “I didn't.” He ran one of his claws down the patterned groove of the wood on the table. “I knew what Fahrad was long before I had him murdered,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Some... _weak_ part of me thought that perhaps I might... _learn_ something from him about what I was. What we both were.”

“Black dragons?”

Wrathion nodded. Embarrassment burned at his throat, and he swallowed it. “I mean – sure, I know what black dragons are. I know what I am. I'm a very good black dragon!”

“Yes...”

Wrathion frowned. He suddenly wasn't sure if that was a compliment, remembering what Sabellian had told him.

He cleared his throat and shifted his shoulders. “But even still I... lack knowledge... that I'd like to have.” Wrathion stopped moving his claws against the wood. “Even Sabellian noted it – in Kun-lai.” He glared at the memory. “Perhaps I thought like I did with Fahrad,” Wrathion continued, his glare melting away. “I would have killed him quickly after I received the information I wanted, of course,” Wrathion said quickly, but he soon glared and snarled at himself, the sound muted, huffed underneath his breath. “But I should have killed him on the plains, after the Alliance took him down.” Wrathion inhaled sharply and shook his head. 

Why was this so difficult to think about? There were a thousand answers to a question that had already been taken care of: Sabellian was dead, and that was that. 

So why was it plaguing his mind like it was? So what if Sabellian had helped him? So what if Wrathion had secretly wanted to ask about what their race was like, what rituals, what lessons, what secrets the elder dragon knew that he did not, about the Black Dragonflight? What would it even matter, anyway? The Black Dragonflight only knew death and destruction – pain and suffering. Only Wrathion himself was the first to lack their corruption – and what was a black dragon without that sort of taint? 

He glowered at nothing in particular. Only _he_ could answer that question for himself – so why had he still wanted to keep Sabellian alive for that brief amount of time before he executed him, so Wrathion could again be the last?

Wrathion winced. He forced Sabellian's choked voice from his mind, the dragon's last words to him, far away.

Maybe he already knew what he was.

He growled, frustrated. “I was an idiot. But – I fixed my mistake.” Wrathion nodded once, sharply. “I knew I could not keep Fahrad alive, no matter how much I wanted to learn. There is no saving monsters like them, Left. I think I – I think I realized that before I killed Sabellian. Even if he did come to my aid.”

Left said nothing for a moment before sighing. It was a surprisingly tired sound.

“You're not an idiot for thinking that way, my Prince,” Left said. “I think it's natural to know what your race should be like.”

Wrathion looked at her sullenly. “How would _you_ know?”

“My race succumbed to corruption, too,” Left said blandly, but with a strict snap in her voice. “I grew in the internment camps when orcs were confused as to what they were supposed to be with no one to guide them. I understand.”

Wrathion stared. He blinked once, surprised.

“Oh,” he said lamely. Wrathion cleared his throat and nodded briskly. “Right. That.”

Left stared at him. They said nothing for a moment. Wrathion looked away from her and out of the entrance, out at the rest of the Garrison. There were only a handful of pandaren milling about, and, from his angle, he could see down the long steel-blue bridge that led to Niuzao's temple. It had felt like ages since he'd flown there to seek the Celestial's blessing. 

He glared. Blessings given with unwanted advice which only served to confuse and doubt himself.

Wrathion wrinkled his nose with distaste and looked away. Left was still looking at him.

“At least,” Left said slowly, her words a growl but not unfriendly, “as you said, this is over. What's done is done, my Prince. The choice you made was your choice. Whether it was right or wrong doesn't matter. You did what you thought was best, didn't you?”

Wrathion nodded. For the last time he glanced at the bloodied bowl and, reaching out, pushed it away from him.

“Yes,” he agreed quietly, though he was unsure in his own words. “I did what was best for me.”

Not for Azeroth, some voice said. Not for the safety of the mortals.

_For me._

“Well!” Wrathion said, startling himself out of his shamed stupor. “At least I can get back on track now that this situation is finally done with. I'd love to see how the Alliance and Horde are riling up, wouldn't you agree?”

Left grunted. Their moment broke. She stood from the table.

“You should get some sleep,” the rogue grumbled. “You look terrible.”

Wrathion rolled his eyes. Left watched him a moment more before she nodded, turned and headed towards the entrance to stand guard. The flap closed behind her, and Wrathion was alone in the tent.

Wrathion stared for a handful of seconds before his chest seized with the vicious sourness of guilt and fear, and with a low groan he bent his head to rest in his flat, raised palms. He closed his eyes to both mind and sight, and, nausea churning at his stomach, blocked out what he had done. 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

 

It was cold in the small prayer room. Even with the dozens of lit candles, they were hardly capable of creating the heat Nasandria so desperately craved. She sat on her bed of soft linens, warmed now only by her own body heat, and leaned back against the stone walls. 

Cold radiated at her back, and she grimaced. It must have been growing dark outside; the chill in the room had only become sharper, deeper, as Nasandria spent her time in this lonely room glaring at the closed archway on the opposite side of the room. 

She could only guess, though. It wasn't as if she could actually see outside.

Licking her lips idly, Nasandria readjusted her shoulders against the stone-brick wall behind her, which was already beginning to warm from her own internal heat. The monk that had brought her food and had tended to her, smiling and gentle, had left an hour before, having returned to tend to her after Kalecgos had left. Nasandria had been wary of the pandaren, though he'd seemed genuine. He asked no questions save for those concerning her health, and even then Nasandria was guarded, giving off snips of “yes,” “no's,” and “fine's.”

She sighed and went to cross her arms – and stopped herself before she made the same mistake she'd made again and again. _Arm_ , she reminded herself, slowly dropping her hands – hand – down to her lap. The drake cast a baleful glance at her left elbow, now set with thick white gauze to hide the precise cauterization underneath. 

Damn thing. Nasandria scowled and looked away, brushing back curling wisps of her black hair away from tickling at her eyelashes. Her usually-tight bun, held fast with a dragon-claw clasp inset with a bright ruby, was in a disarray behind her, more of a fan of hair than anything collected. 

She would have fixed it, but she didn't know how to do it with one hand.

A sour feeling grew at the top of her palate. Nasandria swallowed it before it could fully manifest. She _was_ fine, she told herself, taking a breath and holding her chin high, though the strands of hair fell back in front of her face. An arm was nothing – she hadn't even lost the whole thing! Nasandria bit the inside of her cheek. And the sickness was gone; her strength was returning. The huge feast of food she'd practically inhaled hours before had helped her energy rise in leagues... though even still there was an exhaustion in her bones, and a sleepiness in her strained muscles. 

The sickness might be gone, surely, but her fast-paced, labored trip across the unforgiving sea had taken its toll on her. Every bit of her ached.

Nasandria looked around at the room. In her day here (had it only been a day, she thought? It felt like a week), she'd already memorized the artwork on the bamboo panels lining the walls and the scars of age chipping at the stone statues of the four animals. She had little else to do, and Nasandria decided she liked the large black Ox the best. The animal was enormous, a mass of rippling muscle, horns both as shined as a pearl but as sharp as a sword; it charged across its panel with an unstoppable, ferocious grace that reminded Nasandria of her mother as she had been in life. She may not know what the animals meant, but they were obviously important.

Nasandria tensed. Thinking of her mother reminded her of her father. She glanced down at the archway again. The last time they had spoke was... she frowned. _When_ was the last time they'd spoke? Nasandria remembered collapsing on one of the many islands dotting the sea, the cold fever icing her throat, and contacting him in her haze, afraid and alone and in need of a comforting voice.

He'd said he had both of the princes, then, that he was staying low, unnerved by the possibility of another dragon following him. That he would contact her later, as soon as he could, and that he would see her soon.

But when was that? Was that a day ago, two, three? Nasandria glared, frustrated at herself. 

Whatever the answer, Nasandria wanted to let him know she was fine, and where she was. Maybe he would be as bewildered as she was that the old Aspect of Magic and, if she'd understood Kalecgos right, the Life-binder had helped her.

Now, where was -

Nasandria scowled, forgetting. Kalecgos had taken her satchel. The Eye of the Watchers was inside, of course, but so was the mechanical whelp. She'd need it to contact Sabellian.

She rose, wincing as her knees protested against her weight, and with a slow hiss sank back down to the bed again. Kalecgos had said she was no prisoner here; the monk had same the same before he'd left to tend to some listed chore Nasandria hadn't cared to listen to. She could leave if she wanted.

Even still, Nasandria wasn't an idiot. She was a black dragon; the color of her true form's hide, the yellow of her eyes, the strength of the earth and the lava beneath, marked her as an enemy, a target, even if the Old Gods weren't whispering to her. The unfairness made her angry. How could she know if they hadn't posted armed guards at the archway? 

Fueled by her aggravation she stood, wincing again as her muscles ached. Nasandria swayed forward once, caught herself on the Ox statue to her right, and, taking a breath – the room was spinning – she cleared her head. All she had to do was find Kalecgos, she reassured herself. Wherever he was.

Though maybe she could send for someone-...?

Nasandria snorted and dismissed the thought immediately. She didn't need a servant to do her things for her. She wasn't that weak. 

She stood from her lean against the statue and started down the room, turning towards the closed archway. It wasn't covered by a door at all, but a small bamboo-slot panel. Nasandria paused, turning her head to sense for a heartbeat, a breath, on the other side, but heard none – and both satisfied and slightly surprised there really _wasn't_ any guard, she pushed back the woody curtain and stepped through, leaving the thickly-incensed and candled room behind as she slowly walked down a short, curved hallway.

Nasandria heard the strange _pock_ and _poff_ ing sounds she'd heard from her room in intervals that had come and gone every other hour. It sounded like wood smacking against wood, the _crack_ and _snap_ muffled beyond the stone into what she heard now. It grew louder as she walked in the cold, unlit hallway, and it was beginning to bother her.

The end of the hallway grew bright with a cold, but dying white light. She paused. From what Nasandria could see, it led out into a large-looking room, and it seemed to be circular. The sounds were coming from it. She inched forward and glanced around the open archway, squinting suspiciously. 

It _was_ a large room, and it was, vaguely, circular. Tall, thick columns of dusty pearl encircled the place, rising into an elaborately decorated ceiling of gold swirls. The floor was of rough stone, and another circular design of washed teal and blue stone snaked around the center. 

From here was the source of the noise. Nasandria eyed the dozens of warriors, all of different races – though pandaren seemed the dominant – sparring with one another, holding long sticks of carved wood. The group was a whirl of activity, of good-natured snarls and edging but friendly taunts, compliments warbled by the clangs of their weapons. 

And watching them, to the north, was an enormous tiger. He stood meters tall, and even without his great size he would have emitted the sheer presence of awesome strength and power that literally _glowed_ off of his blue form in wisps of ghost-like azure. She recognized him instantly with his blue fur and great stripes – he was the tiger who had been painted on the murals in her room, and surely the same tiger who had been frozen in mid-leap, forever etched into the stone statue. 

Well. Nasandria didn't really expect them to be real. She caught herself staring at the great beast but found she could not look away.

“Oh, my. Are you alright? You should still be resting.”

Nasandria jumped, winced as her body jolted, and turned to the voice. The very same pandaren monk who had tended to her was now at her side, looking at her with a troubled expression. His long black braid was frayed at the end, and his belted white and blue robe was dotted with what looked like dried blood. She frowned, annoyed. Where had he come from?

As if seeing her question on her face, the monk bowed his head slightly and smiled, gesturing out to the large Tiger and the sparring warriors. “I am a side-by medic to those who are injured during lessons,” the monk explained. “Things sometimes become heated when testing the power of Strength.”

Nasandria wrinkled her nose, then shivered as a raw, cold gust of wind cut at her side. She glanced over and blinked; the room led out by way of an enormous arch and looked out over snowy mountains and other smaller buildings. She frowned; she hated the cold.

Nasandria looked back to the monk. “I'm looking for Kalecgos. Where is he?”

“Kalecgos?” The pandaren frowned. “He is in the rest shrines. The visitors and disciples make their temporary homes there.” He gestured to the opposite end of the large arena. Nasandria didn't see it at first, but she noticed after a moment's inspection that an archway, like the one she had just come out of, was halfway hidden behind one of the great pillars. It was much larger than the one that led to her room, and much more decorated, patterned with the same silver swirls that curled up on the ceiling. “He is on the second floor, I believe.” 

Nasandria went to nod her slight thanks when there came a large, rumbling voice. 

“Harness your Anger,” it ordered, and Nasandria looked back at the sparring warriors. It was the Tiger who was speaking. No longer did he sit, but now he paced back and forth to the north of the room, prowling like his smaller cousins. “Do not let it cloud your judgment.” 

Nasandria stared. Even his voice was like power inherit. It rumbled against the walls with the strength of the earthquake without its malevolence, though strangely enough the floor did not seem to vibrate from his footfalls, as if he were made of a cloud.

“That is Xuen, the White Tiger of Strength,” the monk said suddenly, and Nasandria nodded, mute. 

“Okay. Well. Thanks.”

The pandaren nodded. Nasandria swept by him and, keeping along the edge of the room and far away from the eyes of the concentrated fighters, made her way to the archway, the sound of the Tiger's growling orders and the smack of wood on wood nearly shaking her teeth.

She was nearly to the archway when she had the acute sense of being watched, the back of her neck tingling in warning. Nasandria glanced back, squinting – and saw the Tiger staring at her.

Nasandria stopped mid-step, startled, then looked behind her shoulder to make sure he was not staring at someone else. But no one was behind her save for the cold wall, and she looked back at the beast – Xuen, she recalled quickly – and found him still staring. Not staring, really – but studying. His eyes were a white-blue and held such an ancientness to them that Nasandria was momentarily transfixed before she forced herself to look away and hurry through the archway, leaving behind the Tiger and the warriors.

Nasandria realized she was holding her breath and, annoyed, let it loose. She passed many rooms, all closed, and could hear the mortals inside of them. Nasandria ignored them.

A slow-paced flight up the spiraling stairs later, she was on the second floor, her body aching. 

Okay. She was on the second floor. Nasandria frowned and paused. This had more or less the same rooms, but seemed less occupied; many of the doors were open and the cots inside empty. Kalecgos had to be here somewhere.

Slowly she inched down the hallway, peering into rooms, and quickly grew annoyed by the fourth and still there was no sign or hint of the blue dragon having been there. She began to scowl when a faint voice caught her attention, and one that sounded familiar. Nasandria cocked her head, listened for the direction, and found it coming from the far end of the hallway. She went over, but slowed before the room where the voice came from. She could easily tell it was Kalecgos's, now.

“No, she left,” he was saying. He sounded both exhausted and frustrated. “I don't know where, and unfortunately, I don't know why.” 

There was another voice, though it was difficult to hear, as if coming through a thin funnel.

“That might be.” Kalecgos sighed. Nasandria took the moment to peer around the slightly open crack in the door, careful to keep herself hidden. She could see from her limited view that the room, like the others, was small and square, made of the same cold grey-blue stone as that of the rest of the temple. The hearth near the small but plush bed was unlit, and in an effort to make the seem more lively, slim tapestries, the same bamboo as those in Nasandria's own room, were laid flat against the walls. They depicted mountains, which Nasandria thought was a bit repetitive, as why would you need more pictures of mountains if there were mountains right outside?

Sitting at a small desk, sparse of parchment and books, was Kalecgos. He was to the side of her, and slouched forward, arms crossed on the desk, as he stared into a lit mirror a bit larger than his head propped up against the wall. He may have looked charismatic and kind when he had spoken to her, but now he looked as tired as his voice suggested: dark circles rimmed his otherwise bright eyes.

“Even still I think it's... troublesome, Jaina. It's been a good deal of time since Deathwing's defeat. I would have thought they were taking it... easier than I was, but I suppose I was wrong.”

The other voice came again. Nasandria could understand it a little better this time, but not enough to make out words. 

“Oh, no. I hadn't heard that. I've been so busy with this that I'm afraid all of my messages are... delayed. Are you sure?”

The voice replied.

“Alright. I'll try to look into it.” He smiled tiredly at the mirror. “Give Anduin my best regards when you see him, Jaina. And please be careful.”

A last reply, a broadened smile from Kalecgos, and the mirror grew suddenly dim. 

The blue dragon's smile fell. He sighed deeply and moved a hand back at his hair, pushing it back at his scalp.

Nasandria cleared her throat loudly. Kalecgos jumped and icy steam puffed from his mouth. He relaxed as he looked up and saw her.

“Oh,” Kalecgos began, and rolled his broad shoulders back, relaxing even still, “Nasandria. Hello.”

“Hello,” she greeted tersely. Her gaze drifted to the mirror, which was now dim and cold.

“I was speaking to my -... friend,” Kalecgos explained, taking her silent look as one of curiosity. Nasandria did not miss his slight tongue-twist. “It's a communication device.”

“Okay. I need my satchel.”

Kalecgos paused and looked at her more sharply. He hesitated.

“I don't want or need the – orb right now,” Nasandria said, carefully emitting the artifact's name... this time. “Just the automaton.”

“Oh! Of course.” Kalecgos smiled and his tension fell away from the crease in his eyes, and he turned in his seat. Oh – there was the satchel, partially hidden by his body, hanging from the side of his wooden chair. He unlatched the top, reached inside and took out the whelp. Kalecgos turned back, and handed it to her gingerly. The automaton creaked. Its dull red-gem eyes stared back at her lifelessly.

Well, that was that. At least the whelp didn't look harmed from her fall at the beach. Nasandria turned it over in her hand, metal cool at her fingertips.

She turned to leave before pausing. Something was still bothering her, but would she look weak and foolish to ask it? Scowling faintly, Nasandria turned back on her heel and gave Kalecgos a suspicious glint that made him frown in confusion.

“You didn't keep me under guard.”

Kalecgos relaxed considerably. “No,” he agreed. He gave her a warm smile that contradicted the chill radiating off of his body. Nasandria didn't like it. “There's no need for me to.”

Pursing her lips, Nasandria studied the dragon. She looked for some trap, some poisonous word, but found none. 

She _had_ been able to leave her room easily, she supposed...

“But I'm a black dragon,” Nasandria insisted after a moment's silence.

“Yes.”

“You should think of me as an enemy.”

Kalecgos tilted his head and studied her. His eyes held no awkward hesitance as they had the last time they had spoke, but instead a pointed thoughtfulness that belied, perhaps, the lurking power beneath. 

“Should I?” The former Aspect of Magic asked, and now Nasandria was the one to hesitate.

“No,” she conceded, finally. She shifted her grip on the whelp, and it creaked loud in the silence. “My father just always said that everyone hated us. It's why we never left Blade's Edge to find better food. Even -” Nasandria stopped, scowling inwardly at her rambling. It was true, though. Sabellian had always insisted they stay in the dry wasteland that was the spiked mountains and turn away thoughts of the bountiful prey in Nagrand to the south. Samia had always thought him paranoid, too nervous, but Nasandria had no reason to disbelieve him. Father was always right.

Kalecgos paused. He looked at her for a heartbeat before breaking his gaze and staring at the dim mirror.

“I'll admit,” Kalecgos began cautiously, “that we mostly... don't like... black dragons.”

Nasandria wrinkled her nose.

“But,” Kalecgos continued strongly, turning his head to stare at her, “'mostly' does not mean we dislike them all.” He paused and frowned, brows scrunching, as if he was considering how to word his answer. Nasandria watched him impatiently. “It was always thought that the Old Gods' dominion over your kin was irreversible. Alexstrasza tried very hard to keep the purge back as long as she could when her Flight tried to search for some cure, you see.” He smiled, but it was not a happy one. “Wrathion came from that, but he wasn't a cure for the rest of his Flight. So the purge happened. It had to be done. It wasn't done out of hate, but necessity.”

Nasandria stared at him. It sounded like he was trying to cushion his words for her.

Hate was hate, she thought. Whether if it was necessary or not was irrelevant. 

“Okay. So?”

“Well, here's where my 'mostly' comes in,” Kalecgos said, smiling as if he'd just made a joke. “Wrathion was the first known black dragon to be free of corruption, and that amazed... and, well, aggravated some... everyone. But here you are, too, and your family, I'm sure. You are all testaments to a thing not even the great Life-binder thought possible.”

“And?”

“It's... refreshing?”

“Refreshing.”

Kalecgos laughed but it died quickly. “Maybe that was the wrong word.” He smiled apologetically at her. “I just mean that I think it's astounding to see black dragons without the taint. No one really knew what they were like as a whole without it, except the Aspects, really.”

Not fully without it, Nasandria thought. She struggled to keep her face even as she recalled the oozing spasms and hoarse whispers of Talsian and the muffled snap of his neck when Father put him out of his maddened misery. A curl of nausea twisted faintly at her stomach.

“I don't know about that,” Nasandria said, and Kalecgos frowned at her. Why was he so interested in what black dragons were like without the corruption, anyway? She looked around the room cautiously but did not see the Eye. Maybe it was still in the satchel. Nasandria brushed her hair away from her face. Perhaps it was the same reason he was interested in that artifact: curiosity. 

She paused. No, they weren't fully without it, but Wrathion was, and the Eye was the cause for it – even if it had just taken her arm and made her sick.

But – Talsian had succumbed to the Old Gods by slashes, and though they were deep and terrible wounds, wouldn't losing an arm and extracting a terrible illness do the same harm to her as it had done to her brother?

She remembered her father's guess – injury weakened them physically, obviously, but it would surely take their mental defenses down. 

So why wasn't she foaming at the mouth as Talsian was?

Briefly a flash of the ancient cavern came back to her. There was her severed arm, covered in black, living ooze...

The nausea at her stomach heightened. Nasandria forced the memory away. 

“Are you alright?” Kalecgos asked, and Nasandria shot him a pointed look.

“Fine. Thanks.”

“That's a communication device too, isn't it?” Kalecgos looked at her and it seemed he wasn't trying to smile at her startled expression. “I only -”

“Okay. Well, thanks. Bye.”

She turned and left the room before he could extract any more information from her than he already had, though it had just been the Eye's name and that alone had been her fault. He didn't seem to be following, though her tense shoulders refused to drop. 

Maybe he was genuine. Maybe he really was interested.

Either way, Nasandria didn't care. She just wanted to speak to her father and be done with this place.

\---

Anduin was readjusting his golden silk sash for the third time, displeased with his look in the mirror, when a single heavy knock clunked from his door.

He turned, frowning. His hand paused at his sash. Anduin waited for his guards to announce who or what it was, but the only thing that spoke was silence.

Anduin's frown deepened.

He was in his room, back at the Shrine of Seven Stars. Hours before, he had trekked back from the dig site, his heart heavy and his latent injuries burning, to reunite with a very flustered Johnathan and an unsurprised Melissa. He'd been escorted back to his room and had, more or less, been barricaded inside by the two bodyguards; Johnathan in particular seemed paranoid enough to believe that King Wrynn would swoop upon them like the steel eagle on his shoulder and realize his son had slipped by them again... especially since Melissa had indeed carried out Anduin's hurriedly given request that she seek out his father and request for them to meet. That ended up being planned for tomorrow, Melissa had told him as they'd walked back to his room. His father was busy preparing for... _something_ , though Melissa hadn't been told what.

Tonight, however, was the meeting with Madam Goya.

Anduin had nearly forgotten about it. He'd stayed in his room since being ushered inside, and though he had been a bit annoyed at practically being barred in his room like some unruly child (honestly, he thought, his father had been officially crowned king at his age!) he hadn't really minded, in truth. It let him be alone and relax. The strain of walking to the dig site and back had not only flared a sharp, heavy cramp in his leg, but it had also twanged at the taut burns at his back (freshly applied with the cool green salve Ella had left him) and his slashed arm – but Anduin had a guess that those weren't effected by the walk. _He_ supposed it must have been from the slough of negativity that had nearly knocked his feet out from underneath him, something he hadn't dwelt on, too unnerved by the memory to – for now, of course.

It was when he'd looked up from a retelling of the Burdens of Shaohao, hours later, nestled in a swath of blankets on his bed, and saw the creeping purple shadows slanting from his windows did he realize that it was dusk, and remember the Black Market guard who had sent Madam Goya's request for a meeting. Tonight.

Anduin had wondered if he'd simply remembered wrong – the whole charade with the sneak to the dig site had been a blur – but he knew he hadn't. He wouldn't let something sly like that slip by his attention so easily. 

So Anduin had sighed, closed his book, and refreshed himself, unhappy not with his outfit as his obsessive readjusting of his sash might suggest but instead with all of his bruises and bumps, all his bandages and gauze, that glared back at him in the full length mirror propped up near the mahogany armoire. His yellow sleeve covered his bandaged arm and his tabard the ginger burns, but there was a mottled bruise near his chin and another at his temple, and a slim cut peeked out from the top of his right ear. The dig site, too, seemed to have left a dustiness to his fair hair that refused to go away with both his fingers and a brush, and Anduin had realized, frustrated, that it would probably not come out without soap and a bath, and one he didn't have time for.

His looks shouldn't have bothered him, he knew, but Anduin was learned in the art of presentation from growing up at court. The more collected you were, the more refined, the more respected you were. There was a look to everyone. His father's was sharp and brutal; his armor and countenance exuded strength and authority, and any blood or dirt that he forgot to wipe off only added to the look. The nobles at Stormwind wore all their finest clothes and jewels to flaunt their wealth and prosperity, and Anduin – well, he thought his outfits were handsome and comfortable enough, but as the Prince of Stormwind and a skilled priest, he should have at least looked... well, not injured, which would show weakness, and he needed to look... _clean_. The opposite of what he looked like right now.

And after his first talk with Madam Goya, Anduin was more than aware that he needed to play the game of presentation in front of her sharp eyes. He needed to look worthy of his title as prince, and remind her that he wasn't about to be manipulated. With how easily she'd done it last time – how easily she'd gotten him to extract information he wasn't even aware of what he was giving – Anduin would have to be careful, too. He knew this was no friendly meeting. 

He might not have been as physically strong as his father, but he knew how to play the game. 

Anduin stared at the door for a moment more. He'd thought he might have enough time to heal the bruises on his face, but apparently not. It was quickly growing dark outside, he saw, while he waited for his guards – if they were, at all – to speak, and the window to his left began to glow dimly as the lanterns outside were lit. Faintly, he could hear the thinning crowd outside on the patio, which his room overlooked. But in his room, the silence was as sharp as ice.

Steeling himself, Anduin grabbed his cane and went to the door. Just as he got there another knock rattled.

“Yes?” Anduin called out politely. When again there was no answer Anduin sighed and opened the door.

His guards were gone, no longer flanking the side of the doorway. The hall, usually lit day and night with the red-glass lanterns, was dim, the lights snuffed out. Anduin would have thought the dramatics funny if Madam Goya's personal bodyguard wasn't standing there, his hulking mass nearly taking up the entire height of the doorway.

“Where are my guards?” Anduin demanded instantly upon taking in the situation. It was the flash of worry for them and not for himself that lit his already-fueled frustration. 

“Unharmed,” the bodyguard answered in a voice like gravel and in the deepest tone Anduin had ever heard come out of a pandaren's mouth. 

Anduin pursed his lips. He leaned out of his room and glanced from side to side. Well, he saw no blood stains or signs of trouble, and he doubted Madam Goya would make such an act of aggression against Alliance-based forces so openly.

“Come,” the guard ordered. Without waiting for Anduin he turned and began down the hall. Anduin half-expected the ground to shake underneath the pandaren's feet.

“I'd like to know what Madam Goya would like,” Anduin asked. The bodyguard, to his frustration, did not stop walking; he didn't even look back.

“To speak and dine,” the pandaren answered gruffly. Anduin had the sneaking suspicion that the guard had been instructed on his answers beforehand.

Hesitating, Anduin considered quickly. The guard was nearly at the end of the hallway. The prince scrunched up his brows. Could he simply ignore Madam Goya's request? He dismissed the thought immediately. No – she would take a denial as an insult, and she would no doubt keep asking for him until he had no choice but to concede. It was better to get this over with... such was the duty of a prince.

Anduin went to follow the bodyguard before he paused and remembered Wrathion's gem. He took it out of his pocket, where it had remained since coming back from the dig site, the surface as cold now as it had been then, and placed it on the counter in his room. He hadn't heard back from the Black Prince since his unceremonious cut off.

But he wasn't about to allowed Wrathion to eavesdrop, now.

That done, Anduin followed after the guard. His limp was heavier than he would have liked and the clack of his cane was loud against the dark stone, but he caught up to the pandaren swiftly all the same.

It might have grown dark outside, but the Shrine was no less active, Anduin saw – and heard, and smelled. As the guard began to lead the way, taking him through some less popular hallways to skirt around the main crowd, Anduin smelled the heady burn of preparing dinners and had to smile at the loud, cheerful music chiming in from the main chamber. His stomach growled. When was the last time he'd eaten?

Anduin was so focused on his sudden hunger that he nearly ran into the pandaren's back; the bodyguard had stopped abruptly and Anduin halted. He looked around. They were in a wide hallway that led to the bank area, he knew, but why the pandaren had stopped he wasn't sure.

“Is this-?”

The pandaren turned and faced a large quilen statue that was halfway embedded into the wall. The dog-faced creature snarled its stone scowl at Anduin. It was a bit crude in comparison to the beautiful stone serpents that were usually around the Shrine, and Anduin frowned at it.

Silently the bodyguard placed a paw the size of Anduin's head on the center of the quilen. He pushed, and something inside creaked, before he slid his hand to the side near the curled stone mane. Again he pushed, and the creak, this time, was louder, deeper.

The quilen began to split at the middle. Anduin was vaguely disturbed as the dog-like creature became two snarling halves that opened up into a hidden passageway. The scuff of stone grew quiet and again without waiting for Anduin the pandaren went inside; the resulting archway was taller even than the bodyguard was, and Anduin slipped inside easily, though was more than wary. A secret passage behind the bank? That seemed... less than distasteful, but he wasn't surprised. The Shrine _had_ been built by the sometimes paranoid and traitorous mogu, and even in Stormwind's castle there was a dozen passageways curled around the main rooms, and surely more that Anduin still hadn't discovered. 

The stone slid back behind them as Anduin entered the passage. He glanced back, and a kernel of worry at being... _trapped_ in this place built at his throat. But he swallowed it and turned back, and his worry was almost instantly replaced by a confused wonder when he took in the room he was in.

It was of bright gold, as shiny as a coin. The walls were made of the same swirling designs as the banking area was: large organic curves that were slightly floral and vine-like in their design. It was rectangular in shape, and large metal chests lined the eastern wall while to the east were circular, closed-off chambers that jut out into the room. Were those the backs of the vaults in the bank?

Anduin looked away, concerned with _that_ , and focused on the center of the room. Absurdly, ill-fittingly, there was a long table lined with a silver silk tablecloth and magnificent china filled with steaming food. Braised beef, roasted noodles, a small mountain of marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes, honey carrots, and an apple pie were laid nearly across the length. Anduin stared at it. It smelled as wonderful as it looked. His stomach made an inappropriate grumble.

It took him a moment to realize that there were people _at_ the table. A half dozen patrons, mostly pandaren, were seated and already eating and speaking. Two jinyu and, strangely, a ratty-looking worgen and a dark iron dwarf accompanied them. Anduin didn't miss the lining of Black Market guards, their faces hid with hats, dotted around the room. Soft music was playing, but Anduin couldn't tell where it was coming from, or even if it was coming from inside the room at all, though the clank and snorts and laughs of the diners remained the loudest orchestra in the hidden room.

Anduin spotted Madam Goya at the end of the table. She was looking at him, and smiled as he caught her eye. Wearing the same outfit as he'd last seen her in - the simple dark purple robe sewn with silver thread – she looked simple, less flashy, than the other diners were. Less... pronounced. Her graying hair was tied back in a silver-clasp bun, today.

“Oh, it's good to see you, Prince Anduin,” Madam Goya said. None of the other patrons even turned to look at him. They all seemed to be too engrossed in their own conversations to care. “Please, take a seat.”

“Good evening, Madam Goya,” Anduin greeted politely. Madam Goya's bodyguard led him to the table with an aggressively fast pace, struck out the chair opposite of his employer, then once again took his usual place by Goya's side. She was dwarfed in his shadow. 

Anduin gingerly took his seat.

“I trust Mister Chu was kind to you?” Goya asked. She pat the bodyguard's paw without looking away from Anduin. “He can be quite the brute, sometimes, but he does his job well.”

Mister Chu grunted.

“Oh... yes,” Anduin said. He shifted in his seat as he leaned his cane up against the table. Goya didn't waver her eyes from his. She may look simple, but the sharpness in her gaze was on the same level as it had been the other night, and it unnerved him. 

Cautious. He had to be cautious with her, and with his words, this time. 

“What is this place?” Anduin asked, deciding to play the role of the inquisitive outsider, first. At least he really was interested. 

Goya smiled. It looked genuine. 

“Why, I'm sure you know the fearsome mogu created many of the Vale's buildings,” Goya explained. Anduin noticed her plate was bare. “Terrible brutes, but somehow they built such wonderful foundations – like the dear Shrine. This was once one of the Warlord's secret caches. Mmm... Subetai the Swift, if I recall correctly.” She winked at him almost conspiratorially, like some sort of coy grandmother. “A hidden secret. Please keep it safe when you leave, dear – though I have no belief you'll babble your mouth. Hm?”

“Yes, of course,” Anduin said. Keeping his face even, he continued, “but I really hope you're not delving into the Alliance heroes' banks.”

The jinyu sitting to Anduin's right gave him a lingering look of disbelief, but Goya didn't look phased. She smiled.

“Of course not. That would be most unsavory.”

Unsavory like the Black Market? Anduin thought idly.

“Oh, forgive me. I'm being rude.” Goya gestured to the table and began pointing at each individual. “The gentlemen to your right are the Yu Brothers... 'sailors' along the Jade Forest.” She smiled as if she'd made a joke. The jinyu she was referencing nodded vaguely before continuing their talk with the pandaren opposite of them. “Then there is Jin from Krasarang. Do be sure to ask him about his newest dig. Then Mei of Kun-lai. Shui -...”

She continued to list the dinner guests, and Anduin tried his best to remember them. He wondered why they were here, but could only guess that they were somehow tied in with the underground market, though he questioned the dwarf and worgen.

Anduin had little time to thank her for the introductions, because she started speaking again as quickly as she'd stopped.

“Enough chatter. Please. You look rattled. Do eat; there's plenty.” Madam Goya motioned behind Anduin, and a guard – or, well, Anduin supposed he was supposed to be a servant tonight, dressed in a silkier looking garb of black and purple, but he still had the bulk of the rest of the guards lining the walls – swept up and began piling Anduin's plate with food. The servant moved back as quickly as he'd moved forward, leaving Anduin with much too high a hill of food steaming on his plate. He stared at it in an almost stunned disbelief. 

“We have an excellent brew,” Goya was saying, and he looked up, blinking, just in time to see a second servant try to fill his empty gold goblet with beer. He swiftly cut his hand up and blocked it off with his palm, and the servant made a surprised grunt.

“I'm sorry, but please – I'd like to pass on the alcohol,” Anduin explained apologetically, both at Goya and the servant. The pandaren moved back, but only after Goya had flicked her hand dismissively. 

“It's considered rude to deny a host's drink.” Goya didn't sound malevolent, but only a bit peeved. Anduin lowered his hand from the goblet.

“My apologies, Madam Goya... but I wouldn't want my father to find I was sneaking out and drinking.” 

It wasn't a lie, not really, but the comment was made to be a light-hearted statement. He heard the ratty worgen snort, at least. Surely he didn't want to run into Varian on the way back, but the truth was he wanted to keep his mind sharp. Alcohol would dull it – and Goya knew that.

“No?” Goya inquired, daintily plucking an orange from a basket of fruit in front of her and peeling it with her claws. 

Anduin nodded. He noted Goya's own dry glass. “I'm afraid he's not as welcoming about his son drinking as pandaren are.”

Actually, he didn't know about that. Varian would probably be more surprised than upset if he ever found Anduin downing a beer or two, Anduin suspected.

Goya made an amused hum in the back of her throat before setting down the sheared curls of orange, where they rested starkly against the prim white of her plate. 

“Pity,” the Black Market leader said. She went on to peel the orange into four clean slices. Anduin took the pause to grab his fork and start on the food. Denying drink was one thing, but denying food was another. He couldn't do both without insulting her further, and at least, with food, he wouldn't lose his wits.

And he was glad for it, because it was _delicious_. Anduin had to hold himself back from devouring it.

“I suspect,” Anduin said after a moment, as he'd waited for Goya to swallow the chunk of orange in her mouth and he himself had just gulped down the sweet potatoes, “that this wasn't always a dining area?”

“Oh, goodness. No.” Goya wiped her claws on her napkin. “A mere treasure store. I couldn't imagine the filth inside if the mogu had eaten here, as well.” One of the pandaren – Mei, he remembered - sitting to Goya's left chuckled at that, but Goya ignored her, and she went on to talking to the stoic dark iron dwarf who'd hardly spoken or moved since Anduin had first seen her. “I saw my opportunity, however.” She chittered, and Anduin realized late that it was a laugh. “The table was horrendously difficult to get inside.”

“I can imagine.” Anduin glanced around. Yes, he saw the opportunity in here, too. Surrounded by riches that were untouched but could be easily grabbed; the vastness of wealth in the gold circles, the mahogany table, the china, the food; the secret of it all. If one wanted to flaunt one's power, this was a good place to do so. Was there another like this in the Shrine of Two Moons?

Anduin shook his curiosity away. Food was eaten, and idle chatter done with. He thought it safe to continue.

“Madam Goya,” he started, lifting his shoulders slightly, broadening them. “This was very kind of you to invite me, but I'm sure there's something you'd like to talk to me about.”

“Perceptive of you, dear,” Goya murmured. She ate the last bit of her orange before crisply folding her paws in front of her. 

“Is this about Wrathion?” 

Goya tilted her head and studied him for a brief heartbeat before she gently unfolded her paws and grabbed her tea cup. It looked to be the same from last night, with the feathers of a golden crane encircling its entirety. “Mm. Why do you ask that?”

“Well,” Anduin started carefully, “you spoke about him last night. I only thought...”

He was cut off as Goya dismissively waved her hand. She took a sip of her tea before speaking.

“Yes,” Goya agreed. “Yet you seemed ready to drop, yesterday evening. I considered my words wasted until you were a bit more energized.” She glanced him up and down, and Anduin felt all of his bruises, injuries, and dirt clinging to his hair practically glow and announce themselves underneath her shearing gaze. He swallowed his frustration. “I consider myself gracious. You look... marginally more rested.”

Marginally. Anduin said nothing. He wasn't a fool enough to ignore the subtle demeaning words. 

Goya made an amused but thoughtful hum. “And yet, to have come from the claws of a dragon, I would be worried if you did not look so harrowed.”

Again Anduin stayed silent, though he watched her carefully. It _had_ only been a day ago, but he wasn't about to believe that no one outside of the Alliance party that had rescued him knew about Sabellian's existence; the dragon was huge and alien to this place. He'd been seen over the Valley of the Four Winds, had set aflame the farmland near the Wall in his scuffle with Alexstrasza... but at the same time, Anduin wasn't sure if people knew that Anduin _himself_ had been involved in the fiasco. He hoped not. The thought alone that people might laugh about how he had been kidnapped by a black dragon for the second time was more than humiliating.

So he stayed quiet and didn't confirm nor deny whatever rumors Goya may have heard, as he had last night, accidentally, with Wrathion's Sha corruption.

Goya, however, did not seem perturbed by his closed mouth. “It seems that Wrathion is free of his unfortunate ordeal,” the Black Market caretaker continued, gently shifting the subject. “I trust you remember the looting of my possessions?”

“Yes.”

Goya nodded curtly. “It would be most helpful if your dragon could assist in their recovery. His Agents would be appreciated.” She lifted a spoonful of sugar and twirled it into her tea. The spoon clanked daintily against the china – until the table shook once, and the spoon gave a rough _clank_ and a spot of the black drink tipped from the side, and Goya pursed her lips and glanced over to the offender – the worgen, who had smacked down his hand on the table and now whispered in harsh tones to the Yu Brothers to Anduin's right.

Slowly, Goya looked back at Anduin.

“I thought you said that you were handling that.”

It came out sharper than he intended. Goya stared at him with an unreadable expression. 

“A little assistance is never something one should turn away,” the pandaren said, finally. She picked up her tea again and repositioned her claws on the cup. “Especially when such assistance is given from the individual who caused such an unfortunate loss.”

“It wasn't Wrathion's fault,” Anduin argued. “He didn't want this to happen.”

“All the same, dear,” Goya continued smoothly, “I'm sure you can understand that it would be fair of the Black Prince to share his resources with the Black Market.”

Anduin shifted in his seat.

“I guess so,” he conceded after a moment.

Goya smiled brilliantly, though he noted it did not quite reach her masked eyes. “Good.”

She said nothing else and only returned to sipping her steaming black tea. Anduin stared at her, waiting for the pandaren to continue. 

A full minute passed in silence, save for the conversations of the other guests and the clank of silverware and the muffled hum of the hidden music.

Was that it?

Busying himself in their lull by pushing around the remaining food on his plate – he was no longer hungry – Anduin mulled in silence to himself. No – that couldn't be it. To have invited him here in the night like some thief, to have shown him this secret, powerful place... just to ask for a bit of help from Wrathion? It didn't make any amount of sense, unless, like the nobles of Stormwind, Goya had just wanted to put on a show with her wealth.

It must have been a good ten minutes before Goya spoke again.

“Now, assistance with retrieving my stolen goods is one thing,” Goya began, “but there is something else I'd like to propose.”

Here it was. Anduin straightened more in his seat.

“I am most interested in these remaining black dragons,” Goya said, shooing away a servant that came to refill her tea, which was hardly half-full. “As are others.”

“Others?”

“Mm. I have... interested parties scattered in every faction. These Horde are preparing for war, it seems, with how they've destroyed some of the Vale.” Goya's expression changed, suddenly; there was a sudden shift of anger, but it quickly fell away. Anduin wondered if he'd imagined it. “My knowledge of these 'dragonflights' is woefully limited, but I know black dragons are a rarity, with our Black Prince flaunting to be the last.” She tittered. “Oh, how much a price he would have fetched me on the Market had I clasped him in chains! The last of one's kind is an advertisement that would have sent me so many bidders. He would have given me more gold than a dozen phoenixes and undead pegasi.”

Anduin stared, quietly horrified, and wondered if she was making a very poor joke.

“You've gone paler in the face,” Goya noted. “Do breathe, dear, and do not worry. I held back on my instinct.” She sighed. “I have sold black dragon oddities in the past, however, and still sold them for a high price – even if they were not living. It's very odd how much people are willing to buy horns and scales and talons, but I do not question the demand.”

Probably to wear the prizes as necklaces, or hang them as trophies, Anduin thought. To point them out to friends and make false claims they'd helped kill the beast.

Anduin frowned. At one time, he would have probably only sighed at the thought but would find no huge qualms except a vague annoyance with lies like that or hosting such death like a trophy. Now it made him strangely uncomfortable, having met black dragons who were not like Onyxia, not like Deathwing, not anything like the rest of the world remembered them.

Anduin refocused on the topic before his mind drifted too far. “I'm guessing you want the black dragons Wrathion's found.”

“Did you know that our highest profit is from mounts and companions?” Goya smiled winningly. “The interested parties I spoke of are from the... mm... ah, the 'Dragonmaw' clan. Brutish looking creatures. They are offering entire stores of wealth for genuine black dragon mounts.”

Anduin had to force back a laugh. She couldn't be serious, could she?

“Madam Goya, I... don't think you understand,” Anduin explained. “Wrathion... he probably won't leave any of his family alive.” The truth of his statement made Anduin's chest ache, but he knew it was right. Wrathion had looked masked and steeled when Anduin had last seen him. His choice had been made. 

It didn't stop Anduin from _hoping_ , though. 

“And even then,” Anduin continued, “that's... the Dragonmaw were known to be cruel to their dragons. They enslaved them.”

Goya looked nonplussed.

“It is no concern of mine what my buyers do with their purchases.”

“But dragons aren't beasts like the rest of the mounts you sell,” Anduin argued. He felt his voice rising but found he couldn't hold it back. “They're like you and me. It's cruel to sell them like cattle.”

Goya was staring at him. Anduin realized it was nearly about to stand up in his seat, and he forced himself to slump back.

“Either way, Anduin Wrynn,” Goya said, “alive or dead, these remaining black dragons will give me great profit. I would _like_ them alive, but if the Prince is so intent on killing them...” She sighed. “A shame, and a waste of money.” The pandaren gave Anduin a sharp look. “Please share this with my first proposal, then, dear: I would like all remains given to my stores. All scales, all horns, wings, bones. And if he keeps any alive, they will be mine to sell.”

“You can't be serious.” The words had left Anduin's mouth before he'd registered them. Mister Chu, who had stayed relatively stoic behind Goya, grew taut around his shoulders, and Anduin realized his mistake. 

But Goya was unperturbed, and she shooed Chu's aggressive stance away. She did not break eye contact with Anduin, and he dared not look away from her. There was a tension between them like a taut string, and he feared it would snap at any moment.

So much for caution, he thought.

Goya began to open her mouth when she was promptly interrupted by the table shaking again, this time more aggressively. Anduin looked over as she did, only to see the same worgen get to his feet and point an accusatory finger at the Yu Brothers whose hands, Anduin realized with some growing discomfort, were beginning to slide down to their belts where Anduin had little to no doubt they would find the hilts of their weapons. 

“That's an unfair deal,” the worgen said in a gnarly, thick accent that was hardly understandable in both inflection and in his apparent slurring drunkenness. “I ain't gonna be cheated by some damn tuna-lookin' pirates and you can kiss my ass before I agree to that, or take a hook in your slimy lips.”

The Yu brother closest to Anduin made a frightening sound that sounded like a mix of a hissing cat and a shrieking dolphin. Madam Goya only sighed and made a cursory flick of her wrist, and two of the guards positioned against the wall reacted instantly. They grabbed the worgen by both arms, and though he yelped and began to flail and snarl wildly, spurting curses and threats, the Exchange Guards escorted him out of the chamber. Anduin heard the groan and grind of the splitting quilen, and then a muffled crack of bone on bone. It went quiet, and, as if nothing had occurred, the Yu Brothers released their holds on their weapons and went back to speaking with the other dinner guests.

Anduin stared, alarmed, as the guards came back without the worgen.

“Unsavory,” Goya murmured. She looked back at Anduin, and he bit his cheek. The pandaren hardly looked phased by the ordeal except for a slight, annoyed crinkling at her eyes, like she'd just seen a spider scuttle along the plates. “As I was about to say,” Goya began again, “I am very serious. I know an opportunity when I see it; it is why my Market is as flourished as it is.” 

“Wrathion won't let you take all of that profit for yourself.” He probably would want to burn all the evidence of Sabellian's brood ever _existing_ , honestly.

“I understand that the Black Prince can be difficult. His reputation proceeds it.” She paused. “I am sure, dear, he will cooperate, but if he does live up to his... stubbornness, and refuses my fair request, do remind him that I can take his built reputation away. It'd be unfortunate for more rumors to spread.”

Anduin hesitated. He remembered all too well what Goya had said last night. She'd heard about the Sha corruption near the Tavern, had heard about Sabellian and Alexstrasza's dog-fight along the Wall, and Anduin himself had accidentally confirmed he'd returned back to the Tavern, which suggested he'd gone to cleanse Wrathion. He was more than well aware that people were now alert to Wrathion's hypocrisy, how he'd played both sides – a thing that still frustrated Anduin, if he was honest with himself – and that it was angering them, obviously, but... what could the rest of the rumors do to harm? They would show Wrathion wasn't the last black dragon, but other than that...

He withheld a sigh. He was missing something, but that wasn't all of it: Madam Goya wasn't just requesting. She was blackmailing.

“Madam Goya,” Anduin started slowly, “I'm sure Wrathion will be more than happy to help you with your endeavor with finding your lost items.” Well, probably not, he thought, but padding words always helped. 

Not with the black dragon supply, though.

Anduin paused; now he had to choose his next words carefully. “And what you said last night – I mean no disrespect, but those were just rumors.”

Goya studied him. Her eyes no longer held their false friendliness but instead a shrewd sharpness that for a very disorienting moment reminded Anduin of Katrana Prestor. He swallowed the sudden swell of discomfort balling up at his throat.

Finally, she smiled, slow and terse.

“Even if they are... 'rumors,'” she began with a knowing flicker of her dark blue eyes, “I can assure you that they can still harm.”

“Forgive me, but I fail to see what harm they can do.”

He was being snappy, but he found himself uncaring. This was getting ridiculous. 

“I'm sure you know that many of his former champions have heard of his two-sided allegiances?”

“Well, yes.”

“And how _dreadfully_ angry most of them are.” Goya clucked her tongue once. “Whispers have now become snarls in the span of a day. Unfortunate for the boy, but the fault is his.”

Anduin pursed his lips and said nothing. He didn't know why she was talking about this again and how it related to his comment.

“All it would take for some of them is a bit more fuel to their fire to cause harm to our Black Prince,” Goya continued slowly, her words crisp. “Do you know the origins of the Sha, Anduin?” She asked suddenly, and Anduin almost jumped at the change in conversation. He stared at her before catching his wits. She hadn't used his title.

“Of course,” Anduin said. “They're birthed from negative energy. They only began unearthing themselves because of the Alliance and Horde's -”

“Yes, yes, that is common knowledge,” Goya interrupted. Anduin frowned at her. What did she mean by origins, then? “Come now. Do you have no guesses?”

Anduin watched her, cautious. Origins of the Sha-... 

A sudden, heavy feeling of deja vu swept over him: he was standing in a ruined hallway, streaked with the glow of Sha energy, his two guards crumpled, with Left standing in front of him, and she was speaking.

_“Yes, alright, negative emotions. But the Sha’s origins are from an Old God. Yshaarj. They’re the very_ __whispers_ _ _of an Old God. I wonder how much worse they affect_ __black dragons_ _ _?”_

Anduin stared at Goya. She stared back.

“They're the whispers of Y'shaarj,” Anduin murmured. His blood felt as if had stilled, and a tightening had curled in the pit of his chest. He suddenly understood.

Goya smiled.

“Yes,” she said in a voice as quiet as Anduin's had become. “The God of Seven Heads, dead and buried. Mm. A terrible story.”

Anduin took a small breath. “How do you know about that?” 

He knew it wasn't common knowledge; even he hadn't known before Wrathion's possession, and he'd assumed only Left had known because _Wrathion_ had figured it out, with all of his scattered, scheming, researching Agents digging into every possible trove of information about the landscape.

Goya tittered. 

“I am the leader of the largest underground market in Pandaria, child,” Goya explained with an amused tone that didn't seem appropriate for the conversation. “The Market does not operate on ignorance; to know its items I must know Pandaria's history. Why, how stupid would I look if I was selling a sonic amber rifle and knew little of its meaning, what the amber was, how ancient its mechanism and how blessed the art of amber-shaping?” She laughed her quiet laugh again. “Do not think your Black Prince is the only one to be interested in Pandaria's secrets.”

Anduin nodded sharply. 

“Even still – what does that have to do with the rumors about Wrathion?” Anduin asked, but at this point, he knew. He knew the moment the word _Y'shaarj_ had left his lips. 

He just needed for her to confirm it.

“ _As_ I was saying, it would only take the slightest push to begin a flame that would no doubt chase Wrathion to wits end,” Goya said. “It would be most unfortunate if the rumor of his Sha corruption, for example, was to spread.” She paused for effect, then brushed her graying bangs back from her face. “I know the story of his race. Corruption is a tense subject. It would be disastrous still if this rumor would include some ghastly thing about him having heard Y'shaarj himself, seeming how the Sha were born from Him... that perhaps this 'neutral' party is as terrible as his predecessors. I think, perhaps, that would be _more_ than enough of a spark to spur on those already angry with his terrible lies. I would hate for his head to end up in chains like _so_ many others.”

Anduin stared; his mouth went dry. It took every ounce of concentration to keep his face even and his face to stop its slow reddening of defensive anger.

Madam Goya knew how to threaten; she'd even added a small reference to his tormentor Onyxia, and Anduin didn't want to even _think_ about where she'd heard about the broodmother's head hanging in chains along the arch of Stormwind.

But she didn't know that what she was going to lie about in these “rumors” was _right_. Anduin could already see Wrathion looking at him, the black smoke rolling from his body, his icy eyes filled with a teary panic.

_I can... hear them._

Anduin looked away. He clasped his hands out in front of him, turned his attention to them, and rolled his knuckles against his palm. 

“I see,” he said, finally, his voice tense. Anduin took a moment to pause before he continued. “That's... relying on a lot of things, Madam Goya. Even if you do spread that rumor, people may not react to it. People have been overtaken by the Sha before – even Taran Zhu. Wrathion succumbing isn't any different.”

But he knew it was, and _she_ knew it was, and it was just because of Y'shaarj. Anduin wasn't foolish enough to believe that people weren't distrustful of Wrathion, even _before_ the word of his hypocrisy had gotten out. 

“No, no. I suppose you're right.” Goya looked at him and crossed her hands over her empty plate, full only of the peeled orange slices which were beginning to quickly brown. “But it is outstanding how easily people will look for excuses to hurt what they think is an enemy. I am sure you're aware of that, however, my dear. Is that not what your... strange little war is based upon?”

Anduin locked his jaw. He decided to comment not on that, but something else that was bothering him about this entire rotten conversation.

“I would think a Blacktalon Agent would be more suited to speak to about this.” Anduin looked at Goya firmly, and straightened out his shoulders. “Wrathion may be my friend, but I am not his messenger.”

“And yet you _are_ the Black Prince's... 'friend.'” Anduin felt his stomach grow taut at her inflection of the word, and her eyes held a shine that made him wary. “Greater ties mean greater... leverage. You, I hear, have a voice that can sway even the stubborn King of Stormwind. Certainly the same can be used to speak to the Prince on my behalf.”

Anduin's eyes grew hard. Now he understood. She was using Wrathion and his friendship to her advantage; she was playing on his compassion and protection over his companion as her _own_ leverage, knowing he would not turn a blind eye to this obvious, malicious blackmail, and knew that Wrathion would listen to _him_ more than a simple Agent.

Anduin grit his teeth. He hadn't counted on being manipulated, but here he was, caught between not wanting to help Goya, and wanting to help Wrathion out of this mess. Just as she'd wanted.

“I don't know when Wrathion will be back,” Anduin murmured, in a last-ditch effort to weasel himself out. “He's... taking care of something, right now, and I don't -”

“Oh, no need to worry. I have a report he is flying in by kite tonight.”

“I – what?”

Anduin blinked, taken aback. He was flying back to the Tavern already? His stomach twisted. Had he already dealt with Sabellian? That _quickly_? Or was he bringing the dragon back to the Tavern, for whatever reason? Maybe he'd decided to keep him alive...?

His mind whirred with the sudden news, but he forced it to still. 

“So. Do we have an understanding, my dear?”

Anduin stared hard at her. Every ounce of him was telling him to stand up right then and there and walk out of this place, to forget he ever found this secret, to erase Goya's smiles and threats against one of the only living friends out of his head.

But she had him. And she knew it.

And so did he.

With a heavy sigh, Anduin nodded, but he let a small glint of a hidden glare pass through as he locked her in a straight, open gaze. She may have had him, but he wasn't going to slink down like a beaten dog.

His walk back to his room, soon after, was a lonely one.

\----

Wrathion hated kites.

He had started out the trip in his human form, his legs folded awkwardly underneath him after he'd hopped onto the large blue and red kite of the Shado-pan. The pandaren had graciously lent three of them, though after a quick realization that the “all-knowing” Blacktalon Agents had no idea how to fly the kites, three pandaren had been assigned to guiding them back to the Veiled Stair.

It had only been a half hour since Left's talk when the Shado-pan had asked if they would like transportation back. Wrathion may have still be tired, but he knew that their request was just the pandaren wanting them to _leave_. He'd seen many of the Shado-pan give him sidelong glances as he'd left the tent, flanked by Left and Alexia, and had dutifully ignored them. 

“You should have listened to me,” Fei Li had said as she'd watched her Shado-pan prepare the kites. She had a long bandage stuck to her face and her pink nose was bruised. “I told you the mantid would be angry.”

Wrathion had given her a silent glare. She'd expressed her confusion, however, as to why they had been captured rather than killed, and had asked what he had seen down there.

“Amber,” Wrathion had quipped, and Fei Li had looked annoyed.

He was glad when the kites and their guides were ready. Wrathion hadn't looked back at the smoking ruins of Sik'vess as they'd lifted onto the winds, the sturdy cloth whipping beneath his knees and the air cold against his face. He wasn't about to rip apart the blanketed numbness he'd pleasantly settled over his torn mind by looking back at the dying kypari tree where he had seen things he'd already forgotten and had done a deed he was both proud and terrified of. 

It was better to mask his shock, to push it back and forget, he'd come to realize. Left had been right, anyway: what was done was done, and there was no use shaking like a leaf in the wind about it. His inner doubts and despair had terrified him into corruption with the Sha; they had weakened him after Sabellian's capture into spilling his guts to Anduin Wrynn. Wrathion had steeled himself before but had let his mask fall after the mantid had captured them – after that entire-...

No. Wrathion would not let his composure slip again – and so he had blessedly blanked the events away, smoothed them back like they were smears upon a spotless piece of armor, but there was a vacant feel to his thoughts, like he was still drugged.

Wrathion had handled an hour in human form before the loathsome rocking of the kite had gotten to him; he'd gripped onto the wooden beam so tight with his claws that he'd scarred through the sanded smoothness, and the pandaren guiding the kite had given him a nasty look at the damage. Annoyed and airsick with the unnatural sway Wrathion had shifted into whelp form and promptly curled himself around Left's shoulders. At least the orc didn't seem to mind the lurching of the kite as it whistled through the chilly northern wind. Then again, she never really seemed to mind anything.

The flight had been a long one. They'd left before dawn, but now as the great mountain of the Stair rose in front of them, the stars lit up against the night sky like a thousand winking eyes. Wrathion watched them lazily, picking out all of the dozens of constellations he'd learned: there was the great Bear, and the Serpent, and then the Warlock's Eye. There was the Worg, too, chasing the Deer in an eternal pursuit against the sky.

It was better watching the stars then watch as they ascended the stairs by kite, the wind here much more warm, and come upon the destruction of the Tavern. He knew what he would see when he looked ahead, and though try as he might to swallow his growing discomfort there was an unmovable knot in the pit of his chest, like he had swallowed rock. The last time he had been here was –... when he had fallen into his Despair, and he didn't want to linger on such tainted memories. Better to forget they had happened, to force them away, and never bring them up again as he had in his moment of sheer _weakness_ with Anduin Wrynn. Just as he was doing with the event at the kypari tree, so would he do again with the Sha. Easy. 

“We're here, My Prince,” Left murmured, and Wrathion sighed and forced his eyes from the stars as he leveled his gaze back down. Indeed they had quickly scaled the Path of a Hundred Steps – cheating, perhaps, with the kites – and the leveled plain of the Veiled Stair spread out in front of them.

The landscape was nearly like they'd left it: many of the tree husks were black and ashen grey, fully sheared of their leaves, and through the mists, which were wholly thick tonight, so thick Wrathion had to squint to see through, he could just make out the fuzzy outlines of burnt grass beneath, a circle of death that outstretched across the slope. 

It was as if they were landing in a cloud as the Shado-pan led them down to a surprisingly smooth landing, striking out their feet to halt the kite from bouncing at the ground. Wrathion hopped off of Left's shoulder and the kite instantly. The grass crunched, brittle, beneath his feet, and he looked around after shaking off his numbness from the tiresome ride. The mists clung to the gnarled limbs of the dead trees like a spider-weave cape draped along a frail woman's outstretched hands, and for a disorienting moment he felt as if he was about to be snatched up by their twisted branches. He shifted into his human form and wiped imaginary dust off of his pauldrons as if to shake off his paranoia, and frowned. The wind smelled of burning, but blessedly warm. 

It didn't look or feel like they had arrived at what was once a quiet place of rest, but instead at a graveyard. Wrathion tried to numb the feeling at having returned. He wasn't sure _what_ to feel. Elation? Relief that this ordeal was over? 

Wrathion just felt tired and a bit confused, and the need for a good nap and a day-long soak in the hot spring.

“I don't remember the Veiled Stair looking this glum,” grumbled one of the Shado-pan, the one who had guided Alexia's kite. Wrathion could hardly see him through the thick mist, though he was only a handful of feet away.

Wrathion wrinkled his nose and ignored the comment. Left had already gotten off her kite and was at his side. 

“Well, we're here. Good,” Wrathion murmured lamely. Now what? 

Oh, yes – of course. Wrathion blinked hard and started towards where he thought the Tavern was; he could hardly see it through the fog, and nearly ran into a tree before catching himself. It wasn't long before he heard footsteps crunching towards him and he stopped, his good hand instinctually going to the hilt of his dagger before he saw it was not some enemy but instead one of his Agents, another orc.

“Hello, Prince,” the orc greeted gruffly, his voice like rumbling rocks. “I trust the ride was smooth.”

Wrathion sniffed and swept past the orc, in no mood for idle, wasteful chatter. “Report. Now. I _don't_ have all the time in the world.”

The orc followed Wrathion and Left. Wrathion could hear the pandaren having trouble tying the kites, as the kite stand had long since burned down; he vacantly covered the memory of who had cast the inferno away. One of his fingers twitched.

“The Black Market House is still abandoned, Your Majesty,” the orc explained as Wrathion swerved past yet another tree and withheld the urge to simply kick at it in his frustration. He wished they'd all just burned down fully instead of him nearly knocking his head into all of them because of the damn fog. “We've seen some glimpses of the Exhange Guards, but they've disappeared as quickly as they were spotted.”

Wrathion raised a brow but did not comment. He cared little of the ongoings of the snake-like Madam Goya.

“ _And_?” Wrathion prodded. He stopped, recognizing where he stood. Around him was the small, bare courtyard leading up to the Tavern, which was -...

Right in front of him, but not as destroyed as he remembered.

Wrathion stared, confused. Was it the mists playing tricks on him? It was still a disaster – the roof caved in, a hole in the wall where he'd been thrown through, and scorch marks dotted and smeared the thick wood like the dappled hide of a leopard – but it seemed to him like it had gone through a bit of repair, mostly because of the different shades of quickly-hacked wood that now lay embedded in some of the smaller outer walls of the Tavern. 

The orc grumbled, perhaps sensing his confusion. “Tong is here. Came yesterday, as we were transporting Right. Old bear is trying to repair the place with some other pandaren of his.”

Tong? Wrathion blinked, surprised. He hadn't thought about _Tong_. Wrathion had thought him dead, honestly.

Well! What good news. Maybe Wrahtion's Tavern might be halfway destroyed, but at least he had his waiter.

“And where _is_ Right?” Wrathion asked. 

“Put her in there. Tong's been a bit helpful.”

“Mm. Well. Lead the way.”

The orc nodded and went up the small set of still-broken stairs and into the Tavern. Wrathion paused to glance back at Left, but the orc had no change of expression on her face. For a moment he had the urge to say something cooing and comforting, but stopped himself with a small scowl and swept after the other agent, careful not to fall through the missing steps. Ugh. He wasn't Anduin Wrynn, he chided himself, and Left wouldn't _want_ such coddling words, anyway.

Wrathion tucked his cast arm closer to his chest as he went inside. If it was difficult walking up the destroyed stairs, it was near-impossible for him to try to navigate through the inner destruction. Entire beams from the second floor and the roof were slanted haphazardly into the first floor like they had been shucked in like harpoons from the sky. The table he used to sit at was crunched inward slightly from when he had been tossed through the wall and slid back into the bench, and shards of broken pottery were scattered throughout the floor, mixed in with other pieces of wood charred, broken, or both. 

The stillness of the place, though – that must have been the thing that unnerved Wrathion the most. He had been used to the silence of the Veiled Stair – had enjoyed it, honestly, as it'd let him actually relax, once and a while, and focus – but this was something else entirely. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. There were no voices from visiting champions or the sizzle of cooking food from the kitchens, and no distant sounds of tired travelers laboring up the Stairs – just a silence that seemed almost eerier than the wholesome devastation to the place Wrathion had made his temporary home.

“Up here. Mind the steps. They cave in at the middle,” the orc said. Wrathion watched, bewildered, as the Agent carefully began up the stairs that led to the second floor of the Tavern. They creaked dangerously underneath him.

“Up _there_?” Wrathion looked the stairs up and down. 

“The foundation is secure enough.” The orc disappeared beyond.

Wrathion pursed his lips. Disbelieving the orc, he shifted into whelp form and twirled up onto the second floor by flight, and trusted Left, at least, to be light-footed enough to be safe when going up the steps.

He landed gingerly on the bannister that overlooked the first floor. It was surprisingly still in tact, and Wrathion was pleased to note the small area that Anduin and he had often spent their time playing that silly pandaren board game was relatively unharmed, as well, though the pieces were woefully scattered in stark black and white marks against the wood floor. He had no doubt many were lost.

The orc agent – Wrathion didn't know his name, and didn't care enough to – nodded over to the hallway that stretched from the western side of the room and looped out to the bedrooms. Wrathion shifted back into human form and followed, and Left was already at his side again when he followed the orc through the doorway.

Right was in the first room. Wrathion startled when he saw Tong speaking to another Agent, a female blood elf with her blonde hair tied back in a braid. The innkeeper stopped mid-sentence and glanced at him; Tong may have looked old before, but he looked even older, now; thick bags circled his eyes and his fur looked frayed at the edges.

“Tong!” Wrathion greeted with a false cheerfulness. The innkeeper's ears went flat against his head. “How good to see you alive.”

“Yes,” the pandaren agreed in his rumbling voice. Beside him, laid out on the bed, was a full, bumpy white sheet, and Wrathion tried not to look at it. The blood elf was standing guard beside it. “You as well, Prince Wrathion.”

“I am _deeply_ sorry about the Tavern,” Wrathion apologized. He really was. It'd been the only place on Pandaria that had some sense of home for him since Ravenholdt.

Why did it always seem his house was always set on fire by angry dragons? He brushed the thought away. “But I assure you, rebuilding it will be a task that is next on my list.”

Tong stared at him. The innkeeper looked unsure as if to believe him or not.

Well, whether he did or not was irrelevant, and it wasn't _his_ fault that the Tavern had nearly burned down, anyway. Wrathion turned away and finally forced himself to look at the white sheet. “Is that – ah...?”

“Yes,” the blood elf confirmed. She glanced at Left, who had said nothing and had moved little since getting into the room. Her stoic face was unreadable but her eyes were trained on the bed. 

Tong bowed his head quietly and moved from the room, no doubt to give the Agents and their leader their space. Wrathion thought it a good touch.

“Lift it,” Left grumbled suddenly, and the blood elf complied. Wrathion stayed quiet and, vacantly, watched the Agent take away the front of the sheet and pull it back; his stomach clenched. It was Right – Right's _body_ , he reminded himself, as he studied her face. 

She looked the same as he had last seen her before Sabellian had swept her from the cliff, though there was a paleness to her cheeks that marked her in death: the three claw marks from the drake's talons were torn at her face, and a terrible brown bruise had mottled one of her eyes, which were, thankfully, closed. Wrathion found himself unsure if he could handle them being open.

He felt Left stiffen next to him. Wrathion dared not look at her.

“As I reported, she fell in the river from the Vale.” The blood elf paused a moment more before gently laying back the sheet, and Wrathion released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and relaxed his stiffened shoulders. “It's preserved her, but I would suggest a quick funeral.”

The blood elf wasn't looking at Wrathion as she spoke; she was looking at Left. This would have, under different circumstances, thoroughly annoyed him, but it didn't, this time.

Left said nothing. Wrathion finally looked at her. The orc's blue eyes were hardened and her tusked lips twisted in a silent, pained scowl; she'd forced herself to look away from the covered body, but now, her eyes focused on nothing in particular. Wrathion wasn't sure whether to try to awkwardly comfort her or stay quiet like he was. He decided to pick the latter, lest he make a fool out of himself. He wasn't sure what to say, anyway – for once.

“Near sunrise, then.” Left shifted her weight and glanced at Right's hidden body again before making eye contact with the elf. “Fine?” Her voice as a snap, a challenge, and the elf nodded quickly.

Left hesitated. Her hands tensed into fists before falling flat at her sides, and for a flash, a second, a heartbeat, she looked unsure of what to do.

She turned to Wrathion.

“Your orders?” Left asked gruffly, and Wrathion stared at her, trying to mask his alarm. She was looking at him with a strange, intense gaze that was beginning to unnerve him. Slowly, he glanced back at Right's covered body before catching eye contact with Left. 

“You,” Wrathion began quietly, quiet enough where the words were for her and her alone, “are going to stay here.”

Left locked her jaw. “My Prince -”

“No. These two agents will be my guards for a spell.” The blood elf and orc he indicated nodded their acceptance at his order. “Unless, of course, you do not want to stay here. Honestly, you can do whatever you'd like, Left, I don't care either way. But I believe you need some...” Wrathion grappled for the right words. “Time... off? Time alone? Yes. There. Time alone.”

Left stared at him.

Wrathion felt his sudden confidence waver. “Unless you'd like to be around me,” he said quickly. Oh, Gods, this was difficult. He should have never said anything. How was he supposed to know what to do? He'd never been in a situation like this! 

Left frowned. Her tusks went lopsided against her face. Wrathion watched her warily and decided to stop talking. 

“I will... guard her,” Left murmured finally. “Until sunrise.”

Wrathion relaxed. He was, at that moment, so tired that he felt ready to collapse and curl up right there on the floor – but even still he smiled at Left with a genuine grin that he hoped, at least, did not betray his exhaustion. 

“Very good.” Wrathion nodded, and glanced at Right for the last time before eying the blood elf and male orc. “Well? What are you waiting for? Come here and guard me.”

The Black Prince gave Left one more look, but she wasn't looking at him anymore, but instead the sheet. The two agents quickly hopped to attention and followed him out of the room.

Wrathion forced his shoulders upright as they threatened to sag. Seeing Right left the vacant blankness in his head stinging, left his shielded mask warped. He licked his lips idly as he once again shifted into his true form and fluttered down to the first floor, landing on the bruised and battered metal oven which was, unfortunately, not running. He'd have to ask Tong about that. 

Right now, though – Wrathion wanted to just _sleep_. He jumped over to the table and after brushing off some of the remaining debris, curled up into a tight ball, folding his wings snugly around his body and tucking his broken leg close to his chest. It smelled of fire and burned wood in here, Wrathion thought, as he closed his eyes. Like a fireplace. It was strangely comforting.

His eyes met darkness. For a moment it was as comforting as the smell – and then his mind's eye shifted, and there was something slithering, something creeping forward, an image that was pulled and torn and over-inked, splotched, and formless. But something about it made Wrathion seize with fear. His breath caught – but as soon as he grew afraid the image fell back into darkness. 

But it seemed that the break had forced the dam of forgetfulness in Wrathion's head to crack. Suddenly he had the dagger in his hand and it was plunged deep into Sabellian's gut, and he felt the blood on his hands. He heard the dragon choke. It seemed so _real_ -

Wrathion forced his eyes opened and sucked in a breath. The feeling was gone. He whipped his head around, then glanced at his talons. There wasn't any blood. He wasn't in the kypari tree. Sabellian wasn't here. 

“Are you alright, Your Majesty?” Came the worried inquiry of the blood elf. The two agents he'd assigned to guarding were just now coming down the stairs, and Wrathion stared at her blankly. Had the sudden ordeal been that quick to come and go? Wrathion set his head flat against the table and curled up again, hiding his face but not quite closing his eyes again.

“Fine,” he muttered vaguely. Wrathion glared at his scales and hurriedly patched the hole in his defenses again.

Forget about the Sha. Forget about Sabellian. Forget about Right's body, about the destruction of the Tavern. Forget and mask and steel. He couldn't be weak. _Wouldn't_ be weak. The quicker things got to normal, the better. 

Even still, as Wrathion repeated the mantra to himself, as he tried hard to ramp up his mental strength, he dared not close his eyes for the second time. It was only when sleep forced itself upon him hours later that he fell into a blessedly dreamless slumber, free of the nightmares the sonar had given him and he had forgotten.

\---

Alacian was _starving._

He lay flat on his belly outside the still broodcave as he grimly watched his clutch-brothers and sisters play tag. It was hot out, like he liked it; a burning against his scales that would have made him roll against the ground and scratch his back against the warmed rock in comforted glee if he wasn't pouting. Nythia had tagged him in the game, and he'd insisted she'd cheated. No one had believed him – so he'd sat himself out in protest, and just got annoyed when no one seemed to mind.

Unfortunately, he hadn't counted on his hunger resurfacing when he'd stopped playing. He shifted, grumbling, the stone bumpy underneath his belly, and glanced sidelong at the prey cave, adjacent to the brood's. The last of the stores had been eaten after Samia had left; they usually didn't hoard food until the rainy season, when the acid rain killed much of the animals caught outside.

This was not the rainy season. Even _Alacian_ knew that.

It didn't mean he was less hungry. He turned away and tapped his claws on the ground, trying to entertain himself with the puff of grainy smoke he was kicking up with his paws. From above his claws he could still see his brothers and sisters, but he could also make out the glowing forms of the nether-drakes. Alacian thought they looked funny, but he hadn't said anything. He'd just kind of stared until the nearest one had glared at him. They looked like salamanders.

There weren't many around, though. After the stores had been split up evenly, Ylaria had gone off with some of them to search for prey. She'd hurriedly assigned the other drakes to keep searching for the dead animals that might still litter the Mountains, and even now Alacian could smell the smoke, far-off, from the burned bodies. He sneezed.

It felt empty without Samia. Alacian stretched out his small but growing wings and stood, shaking out his tail and then his head. It had been lonely without Father, but with Samia gone, too, it was worse. Four of his older siblings were gone, too, and Alacian didn't like it. He hoped they were okay. Samia had looked so worried. She never looked like that. But why would she be worried for Father? He was practically the size of a whole _mountain_ , he was so big! Nothing could ever hurt him.

Thinking about it made a strange syrupy feeling pool at his chest, and Alacian whined. He turned his attention back to his playing siblings and thoroughly put-out, went to rejoin them when a flash of red caught his eye.

He glanced over and went still. A small horned lizard was scuttling across the rocks, about the size of his paw. It didn't seem to notice him, and continued waddling around the curve of the cave.

Alacian smacked his maw. The lizards were a tasty treat - if you could catch them. Samia and the others had said not to eat _anything_ here, but it was only a little lizard, and he was hungry.

Slowly he got to his feet and crouched, and, after making sure Thalarian, who was supposed to be watching them but instead dozing off as he usually did, wasn't looking, he crept after the small meal, belly rumbling. It disappeared beyond the curve of the brood cave but Alacian was quick to follow, though he inwardly grumbled each time his paws slid and snapped on the hot gravel beneath his paws. Father said good hunters were either very quiet or very quick. Or both. Alacian was quick, but he wasn't the former.

The lizard didn't seem to realize that, though. Alacian was pleased when he turned around the cave and saw it making a lazy scamper towards the higher rocks, unaware it was being followed. He crouched lower to the ground until the rock brushed up against his stomach and toddled forward. 

The lizard stopped. Alacian halted in turn and pressed his fins flat as the small animal slid a tongue out of its horned head and hesitated before continuing on its tiny trek again over rock and pebble, and Alacian followed once more. At one point he nearly lost the lizard in a patch of redder stone, and had nearly squealed in frustration, until the reptile had popped out around a larger clump of rock.

This continued for a tense ten minutes. Alacian was beginning to get frustrated. Every time he got close, the lizard would stop and scent, and then quickly lurch forward before going back to its slow pace, and Alacian would fall behind. His aching stomach wanted him to just leap at it, already, but he'd _done_ that in the past and he'd only ended up with a raised eyebrow from Father when he'd come waddling back with a bruised snout after jumping, missing his little morsel, and smacking his muzzle into a hard piece of rock that had made him well up in frustrated, pained tears.

Well, okay – that had happened more than once. Maybe twice. Or three times. Or six.

But this time, he was very hungry, and he wasn't going to let his little prize get away.

Alacian's fins rose in alarm as the lizard rounded a corner. They were near the sharp cliffs, now, a sizable distance away from the brood – but Alacian was more focused on his dismay than his location when the lizard disappeared into a small outcrop of rock.

“Hey!” Alacian whispered, and bounded up to where the lizard had slipped into, all slyness cast aside. “That's not fair!”

He glared at the small, dark opening until he realized that he just might be able to fit himself inside. The dark cave he saw was at least a little bigger than he was, he thought, and he doubted the lizard could slip past him if he got in there with it. And he wasn't going to have come all this way and let it get away so easily!

Alacian shoved his head in and grumbled as his horns hit the sides of the opening. He went to shift his snout at a different angle so he might be more comfortable, but found he couldn't; his horns were blocking the way. A rush of fear gripped his chest and he squeaked, trying to pull out of the the small rocky cave, but each time he pulled his horns clacked against the side of the stone. He was stuck.

Alacian whined louder again. He became very much aware that he wasn't close to his brothers and sisters and that Father wasn't here to pull him out, either. 

Maybe he could try to slip inside and try it the other way. Alacian huffed and breathed and forced his body through the opening; he plopped down on his belly on the cool floor and sighed with relief. Okay. At least his head wasn't stuck anymore, he thought. And the cave was a little bit than twice the size he was.

Something smacked into his head and he hissed in surprise. Little claws latched onto his fins and vaulted past him, and he realized too late that it was the lizard. Alacian screeched and scurried around, talons flailing, and tried to snap onto the morsel as it scampered from the cave, but his teeth met the air in a sharp _snap_ and the lizard bolted through the opening.

Alacian glared. He was thoroughly put-out, now. 

Well, maybe he could try leaving the cave, at least, even though the lizard was long gone. He went to carefully nuzzle his muzzle through when he heard a sudden snarl, and he whipped his head back in alarm.

Alacian paused, seeing and hearing nothing else. He looked around his small, entrapped space. Had he imagined it? Idly he began to remember the stories of the “banshees” his Father had told them, of malevolent spirits of the elves he loved to hear about so much. It'd be silly to think of them here, though. Those were on Azeroth. 

Still...

“You're being obscene,” growled a voice in the same tone as the snarl had been, and Alacian stared through the opening. He lay his fins flat on his neck and peered around the rock.

Well. At least they weren't banshees.

They looked a little ghost-like, though, with the swathes of curling energy coming off of their forms. Two nether-dragons were walking past his hideaway – or at least, one of them was. The other, a cobalt, his scaleless skin a dark, midnight blue, dotted with encrusted black gems and lined with lighter patches of stripes, was pacing back and forth in front of the other, larger aqua one, whose head was adorned with a crown of crystals. Alacian recognized that one. That was Neltharaku. The leader of the Netherwing was watching his kin with a false look of attention as he stopped his walk and sat, just a bit out of Alacian's field of view. The whelp had to crane his head to see him fully.

The other one, though – the other one kept moving, kept pacing back and forth. His shark-like head was hunched and electricity sparked off of his skin with a fluid but aggressive grace like the red nether-streams above. He looked older and bigger than the other nether-drakes Alacian had seen; he was a nether- _dragon_ , not a drake. 

Alacian thought him scary with his jerky, violent movements and his powerfully built body. A very scary salamander. 

“I am not being obscene,” Neltharaku said in his strong but patient voice. Alacian gave up on trying to look at his face; he was too tall and Alacian's angle was bad, and his neck was beginning to hurt. “You are the one causing trouble where there is none, Barthamus.”

The cobalt dragon, Barthamus, snorted. He stopped pacing, but only so he could look at Neltharaku in the face. 

“I am not the one who has split our forces in two, brother.”

“It was necessary. And it was not in two; you over-exaggerate to make a false point, hatchling. A quarter -”

“ _Necessary_ ,” Barthamus interrupted with an aggravated sneer. His voice sounded like the vibrations before a storm, like an unleashed energy rattling sharply behind a glass, sharp and snapping. “The demons encroach ever-closer to our territory, and you somehow find it _necessary_ to throw thirty of our brood into these monsters' lot.”

A deep rumble came from Neltharaku. Without seeing his face, Alacian could only guess the dragon's expression; in his mind's eye he thought a snarl. 

“The alliance I made with Sabellian was not some promise to the wind,” Neltharaku said slowly, tersely. “It was for events such as this it was made.”

“It was if the demons came that it was made,” Barthamus argued. “And here they are! And yet _here_ is Sabellian conveniently gone and we are stuck protecting _his_ brood while ours watches the Legion encroach.”

“Do you think an alliance some one-sided agreement?” Neltharaku shifted, moving his ankle, which Alacian knew his injured one, to tuck up closer to his chest. “And even still you conveniently ignore the threat of this Black Prince. Four of my children dead, and no doubt more will follow.” He flexed his great claw. It was bigger than Alacian himself. “The demons grow, but their attacks have not _killed_. Do you not think it better to annihilate this threat on Azeroth first before dealing with the threat of the Legion later?”

Barthamus replied with silence. He began pacing again, and each time he came in the direction of Alacian's hideaway, Alacian would duck his head back, afraid he would be spotted in the small darkness.

“When, or if, Sabellian returns, he will have to uphold the end of his own promise. We helped his brood, and so he will help ours.”

Barthamus snorted. “This is built on many _ifs_. _If_ Sabellian is alive. _If_ he will help. Black dragons are never known for their loyalty.”

“You know little of what black dragons are _like,_ you hateful child,” Neltharaku snapped with a growl to his tone that made, for a brief moment, Barthamus aggressive, dominant stride stutter. “To blindly distrust is a weakness. These are our kin, whether you enjoy it or not. _You,_ as well as I, were them in the egg. Do not think we are so different.”

Barthamus grumbled. His shark-finned tail swished aggravatingly. 

“If Sabellian is alive, I will make sure he upholds his other end of our alliance,” Neltharaku continued. “The demons will take some time to push back, but it will be quicker with both Flights than just our own.” He huffed a deep huff that rattled in his thick chest. “That is the strength of _alliances_ , Barthamus. On our own we are weaker than united.”

“They hardly have any numbers,” Barthamus argued. “Only a bit more than a quarter of ours, if that at all. They can hardly help! We are wasting _time_ here – time and resources.” He paused his pacing, as if he was considering something. His neck lifted, and Alacian could no longer see his face beyond the outcrop of rock. “Would it not be better to drive the black dragons from this place and take it for our own? Shadowmoon is being overrun. Do not lie, I can see the truth on your face. Every _day_ the demons there grow in numbers from places even _we_ do not know. If our territory was to fall -”

“And you believe that forcibly taking territory from our cousins for a simple safe-spot is something to be considered?” Neltharaku snarled. Alacian hunched down. The Netherwing leader always seemed so kind and gentile, but now he was something else entirely. “To break everything I've built with them? Do you remember how difficult it was to even make Sabellian _consider_ an allegiance?”

“Sabellian is no doubt dead by now. This would be an excellent second base, if Shadowmoon was to fully fall -”

“Yes,” Neltharaku interrupted with a snap. “A place of poisoned water and half the prey dead. Are you daft, or are you so blinded by hatred you seek any means to tear them apart?” When Barthamus did not answer immediately, Neltharaku continued. “Terokkar would be our second -”

“Yes, if the forces of Shattrath allow it.”

“They -”

“ _If_ the Aldor and Scryers turn a simple blind eye to some of our kin's outward aggressions towards mortals. _If_ the sleezy market in the Lower City doesn't find our crystals as high a price as they would like.”

Neltharaku grunted. “You are a pessimist.”

“And you are an optimist.” Barthamus huffed. “ _If, if, if_. The Netherwing should be run by _nows, whens._ Not weak _ifs_.”

Neltharaku went quiet. When he spoke again, his words were slow and calculated. 

“You are so intent to be unlike our Father that you are becoming him, Barthamus,” Neltharaku growled. Barthamus stopped walking. “Hatred against what you were, once, is only going to blind you to logic. Do you understand that?”

Barthamus snarled, low and angry. Alacian could see his face now, lowered down to his view – it was warped in an angry sneer that made him look part-demon himself, and the electricity coursing off of him popped and sizzled with a dangerous hiss. He opened his toothed maw to speak when a faraway roar interrupted him. The two nether-dragons looked towards the source.

Alacian recognized the roar. His fins stood up. It was Ylaria. She was back already? His stomach went to rumble but he quickly rolled himself in a tight ball, afraid the small noise would alert the two he'd accidentally eavesdropped on.

“I only ask that you yourself consider other opens, Neltharaku,” Barthamus growled. “Nothing else.”

The cobalt dragon lifted his smooth, flat wings and lifted, turning towards the broodcave.

Neltharaku stayed for a moment longer. He sighed heavily and was slow to follow the other.

Alacian waited even longer before he unrolled himself from his clumsy ball and peeked out of the hole. The nether-dragons were long gone, he was glad to see, and he was safe to leave. He twisted his head and grunted as his horns caught against the sides again, but bracing his paws against the rock, he forced himself through with a squeeze and a huff and smacked his face on the rock, wings going askew and a undignified peep escaping him.

Ylaria roared again in the distance. Alacian sighed, shook out of his wings, and began his half-run, half-flight back to the cave, and wondered about how weird the nether-dragons were. 

\---

Nasandria stared hard at the mechanical whelp in her hands. 

The four statues of the animals looked down at her placidly as she tinkered with the automaton. She was back in the prayer room, having nowhere else to go, and sitting back on the thick cot at the end of the wall. A quiet fire flickered at her left, in an encased metal burner; she'd been delighted to see it upon her return, burning and smoking and melting away the icy heat the slim candles could do break away, to harm the room tenfold. Nasandria had little idea of who had brought it, but guessed the kind monk. Either way, she rested her bare feet against its smooth metal to feel the sharp heat beneath her soles, a comfort in her otherwise frustrated state.

The whelp wasn't working. It hadn't been working for the past half hour. Upon lifting its scaled head to tap the scale below its jaw, the scale that would form the connection with Sabellian's own whelp to allow communication, she'd noted with dismay that it was jammed, shoved sideways and locked. No doubt it had sustained the injury from her fall, and for that she grew even more frustrated. This was her fault.

And no matter how hard she pulled at the damn scale, how much she tried to slide it forward and slide it sideways and back, it refused to budge. 

So here she was, glaring, the tips of her fingers throbbing, and trying not to go forth with the impulse to shatter the thing against the wall.

But that would do no good. Nasandria growled low in her throat and shook the damn thing. It rattled and squeaked, and its head flopped about lifelessly.

“Come on,” she muttered. Nasandria sat it down on one of her crossed knees and snatched onto the bouncing head, forcing its ruby eyes to stare at her. One of them was shattered. “Work for me.”

For what seemed the thousandth time she gently moved her hand underneath its jaw and tried to grab a hold of the coined-sized scale mechanism. It was slippery underneath her fingers, and she felt as if she was trying to snatch onto a piece of cloud. It was harder still because with each push of her hand, the whelp would lost its balance and threaten to topple; she didn't have the added bonus of keeping it still with another hand she didn't have.

The thought of using her claws resurfaced, as it had since she'd been trying to pry the thing in place again. But Nasandria had been too wary her talons would break the inner lock inside with their sharpness and strength and completely destroy the latch.

But she wasn't going to get any farther with her weak mortal-guised hand. That much she knew when again her fingers slipped against the smooth metal. Nasandria snarled.

“Fine.” Nasandria swiftly reverted her hand into a half-claw. Black talons sprouted from beneath her fingertips, coiled and curved. “If you break, it's your own fault.”

Slowly – agonizingly slow – she slipped two of her claws against the scale. Her heart leaped as she felt the curved tips get leverage. Now she just needed to pull the scale back in place as gently as she could without giving into the accidental strength of her hidden form.

Easier said than done. She pulled, and the scale shuddered. Well, at least it was moving. Nasandria took a breath and tried again, slower this time. With a creak and a whine the scale slowly moved back in place until it promptly gave a sharp _pop_ and latched itself down. Nasandria pulled her claws away with a grin.

Finally, she thought. She should have done that before. 

With a tap of her hand, still a claw, she pushed in the scale. It sank into the whelp's throat, and the automaton opened its mouth in a creak. Its eyes sparked with life, and it gave a gnarled rumble of harsh static before twitching against her knee; she reverted her hand back to its human simplicity and held the whelp still.

“Father?” Nasandria called, bending her neck so her face was closer to the little machine so that her voice would be louder, afraid there was more inner damage inside the whelp and that her voice may sound warped or weak because of it. 

The whelp stared at her, mouth open, but all that answered was the steady stream of static.

Nasandria pursed her lips. She waited a moment more before trying again.

“It's Nasandria.” Well, of course it was, she thought. Nasandria shifted her weight and waited for him to reply with the very same comment, but still there was only static. 

She must have waited a solid three minutes of silence before asking again. “Father.” But still there was nothing. 

Maybe he had left his satchel somewhere, she thought. Nasandria tilted her head at the whelp and tried to ignore the steady thrumming of her heart that felt like it was quickening, slowly, but very surely. He had had the two princes when he had last spoke to her, and Nasandria had no doubt that would be a handful. Maybe he was distracted, or he couldn't hear her. 

But he had to hear her right now. How could she know if the whelp would suddenly die on her? If she hadn't noticed the lodged scale on its jaw at first, could there be worse damage inside? If it died, she would have no way of telling her father where she was and that she was alright, and no way of knowing where _he_ was and if _he_ was alright.

Nasandria swallowed a growing sourness that itched at the back of her throat in tandem with the quickening of her heart. Slowly, she reached for a sound deep in her chest, and opened her mouth; a sharp, growling sort of whine rumbled forth from between her teeth. It was a sound of distress. She normally wouldn't have used it – it was a whelp's sound, usually – but...

Nasandria cut it short. If _anything_ , that would make him pick up the damn whelp and talk to her.

“It's Nasandria,” she repeated. 

Static. The whelp stared at her with its bright eyes, its shattered one looking off in all different directions. 

A minute passed. Then two. Then three. Then four, then five. Nasandria bit her bottom lip. Her glare began to melt; now her face held a slant of worry. Could he be _that_ distracted? Whenever the whelps made that sound he always snapped to attention, and if a drake like her had made it – that was asking for attention.

But her father's voice didn't come. Maybe there was something wrong with the connection, she thought – but the notion was steadily being overrun with harrowed ideas. He wouldn't ignore a sound like that, Nasandria repeated to herself. No matter how busy he was, or how distracted; sometimes he was huffy and grumbly, but he was an attentive father. 

Nasandria made the sound again, louder, this time – more genuine, as now a true distress was beginning to lodge in her throat and hitch her tone.

Again five minutes passed in silence.

Nasandria began to breathe hard. Her hand began to sweat cold against the whelp. For a brief, terrible moment she saw the great monster Gruul tearing her mother's head off, saw it hanging in chains, and Nasandria quickly and forcefully beat the memories back. Now she was really being paranoid, she thought at herself. She was being stupid. She was being over-dramatic.

But still, after another five minutes came and went and the only sound that the whelp made was its insufferable _shhhhttttttthh_ of static, Nasandria's panic had grown tenfold and there was a steady ringing in her ears.

No. No. There had to be something wrong with the connection. The whelp was probably broken. There was absolutely no way he would ignore two calls like that.

Or there was something _wrong_ , something hissed at her, the overwhelmingly growing panicking part of her. 

Nasandria took a deep breath.

“Maybe you're busy,” Nasandria started quickly, stumbling over her words and ashamed at the shake in her voice but unable to stop it. “But I just wanted to let you know I'm not sick anymore.”

 _Shhhhhhtttttthhhh._ Static.

“I think Alexstrasza the Life-binder healed me.” She repositioned her hand against the whelp and almost dropped it, her hand was so slick with a cold, panicked sweat welling at her open palm. “And Kalecgos is here, too. I'm either very lucky or in a very strange place.”

_Shhhhthhhhhh._

Nasandria bit her lip so hard she felt blood run down her chin. It plopped against her leather pants, and she ignored it.

“I still don't have my arm, though. It's hard to get used to.”

_Shhhhthhhhhh._

Nasandria swallowed. Please, she just wanted him to answer.

“Are you okay?” She asked. “If you're not, I can come find you. I'm okay, now. Like I – like I said.”

_Shhhhthhhhhh._

She took a trembling breath. “Well,” Nasandria said, “if you're busy, I can try again later. But please be okay. I know that's stupid, but – I mean, you can't get hurt that badly.”

Again the flicker of memory of Gruul's great hand encircling her mother's throat flashed at the corner of Nasandria's eye.

Mother had been untouchable too, once.

Nasandria swallowed hard. She was being over-dramatic, Nasandria repeated to herself. Nothing was wrong -

_Shhhhthhhhhh._

_Shhhhthhhhhh._

_Shhhhthhhhhh._

_Shhhhthh -_

Nasandria scowled and snapped the whelp's mouth closed with a snap. It fell back in her lap. She again almost threw it as she had before, but instead of her hand latching onto it, it instead pressed up against her face; her palm covered her eyes, and she leaned forward onto her knee, arching her back. The sheer weight of loneliness built at her shoulders, rang at her head and ached at her chest. A sob racked her. She always thought herself not as brave or dependable as Samia, not as fierce as her younger sister Ylaria, not as strong as her brother Vaxian or as crafty as Pyria. Here she was, she thought, crying over a stupid whelp and a stupid scream of silent static and with the fear of that silence clutching at her throat, a silence that shouldn't have _been_ there, shouldn't have answered instead of her father's voice.

Nasandria tried to take a breath but found she could do nothing but cry. She wanted her dead brother and sister Ryxia and Talsian. She wanted her father. And she wanted to go home. 


	23. Chapter 23

 

Sleep was not coming easy for Anduin Wrynn.

Not like it ever did, at the best of times; too often Anduin would find himself staring into the darkness of his room, plagued by thoughts that refused to die with sleep and that kept him awake despite the heavy exhaustion drooping at his eyelids. Tonight was no different.

Quiet, tight-lipped and brows knit, Anduin busied himself by staring up at the patterned marble ceiling; there was little else to do but lay here, now he was well aware nothing he would do would make him fall asleep. He'd even tried to him one of his favorite hymns to himself hadn't worked. 

Even a full half hour of his meditation had, almost miraculously, not calmed his anger at Madam Goya, an anger and frustration that still remained curling inside his chest even hours after the trap of a dinner. Anduin sighed and pushed his head deeper into the plush pillow, which he found too warm underneath his head though he was too tired to flip it. He'd hoped hopping into his bed immediately after the disastrous ordeal and sleeping it off would have cast his aggravation away – but apparently not. Anduin wrinkled his nose. He should of known better to think _that_ , though he was unnerved how his meditation hadn't helped. It nearly always did, and having this anger still brimming bothered him on a level he couldn't quite understand.

Maybe that was keeping him awake, too.

He sighed again. 

Slowly, Anduin traced with his eyes the circles on the ceiling, looped and swirling in their design like the curl of a wave. He no longer heard the noise of a crowd outside the patio from his closed window; it was too late even for the ever-busy champions of the Alliance and Golden Lotus to be awake, and replacing their noisy wake was a cricket-chirping peacefulness that only made Anduin's eyes more tired – but his mind, not so. Of course.

Well. Sleep wasn't coming. Anduin gave up on it with a frown, and glanced sidelong at his dresser. He could just make out the dark, liquid glint of Wrathion's gem resting there on the counter, unmoved since Anduin had left it before going to see Goya.

Anduin stared at it. He wondered if Wrathion was back at the Tavern yet; the thought made him strangely worried, though mostly for what his quick return could mean... but then again, what had Anduin expected, really? That Wrathion would stay in Townlong for days upon days?

With a muffled groan, his body in a numb protest, Anduin sat up and, clumsily, nearly falling off the side of the bed, grabbed the gem with his burns stretching painfully taut on his back and his arm straining to reach. Grabbing it, he eased himself back into bed and curled back up in the covers, and held the gem in front of his face; it was cool and smooth against his fingers.

If only he knew how to _use_ it, Anduin thought. He turned it around in his fingers, recalling Wrathion's insistence the gem be some sort of game. Anduin still didn't know what that meant, and was honestly wary to know. Having the Black Prince pop into his head at will and read his mind like some sort of red-eyed wizard like he had at the dig site was more than worrisome, even if Anduin _did_ trust the dragon... more or less. 

He wasn't going to be able to go to sleep. Anduin knew that much. And memorizing the ceiling patterns seemed a bit too mundane; maybe he could try to figure out the gem's puzzle. It was worth a try, and what else did he have to do? If he could contact Wrathion, he could see if he was back, and -... well, _not_ inform him about Goya's blackmail. That would be done better face to face, Anduin was sure.

Again Anduin turned the cold gem around in his fingers. It hadn't seemed to have lit up again since Wrathion had spoken to him at the dig site, remaining cool after the Black Prince's cutoff. He nibbled idly on his bottom lip and balled the gem into the palm of his fist. 

Wrathion had sounded scared when they'd spoken. Anduin knew that much -... though, well, he supposed _scared_ was pushing it. Anxious, maybe, but Anduin wasn't sure why. Had it been the dig site, or whatever was going on at the Black Prince's _own_ camp?-

Anduin paused. Did he imagine it, or was the gem growing warmer in his hand?

He opened his fist and squinted at it. It did seem a little brighter.

Hmm. Anduin idly rolled his wrist. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Wrathion had -

No, wait. The gem grew brighter. Why? Anduin frowned. All he'd thought about was Wrathion -...

… That was it? Anduin sat up a bit more in his bed. Alright, he thought. Let's think of Wrathion.

He closed his eyes and focused. He imagined he was back at the Tavern – _without_ its awful destruction – and sitting across from Wrathion as they played their board game. Wrathion had said something subtly insulting, and Anduin had only flung a retort back that made the Black Prince's grin drop and his body language bristle. 

The gem was getting warmer. Anduin grinned. It was working! No wonder Wrathion hadn't given him any hints to how the gem worked; it was surprisingly easy.

Anduin kept thinking. Wrathion in whelp form was perched on his shoulder and slapped him with the club of his tail when Anduin made some snide comment. Then he was back in the tent in Townlong, and Wrathion's hot fingers were curled around his wrist.

The gem's warmth grew to a heat that prickled and poked at his palm – and promptly a great lurching pulled at Anduin's forehead and chest, as if he was being tugged by an invisible string. He startled and nearly lost his concentration, but the feeling soon fell away and he sagged back against the pillows. A red flash shined against his eyes once, like a winking light; it didn't come back.

Anduin paused, wary. Had it worked? He didn't see anything in his mind's eye but his initial surroundings, and closing his eyes he only saw the inky-red of his eyelids. Maybe, he thought, only Wrathion could see through someone else's eyes.

But the gem was unmistakably warm; it had to active. Cautiously, barring all thoughts save for those initially focused on contacting Wrathion, Anduin mentally called out: “ _Wrathion?”_

The effect was instantaneous. A warbled mix of tired confusion and the syrupy sourness of fear, slugged over with exhaustion, bounced against Anduin's own feelings, as if a rubber ball had been thrown at them. A slur of mumbles and curses followed, and Anduin bit his cheek to keep from smiling.

“ _Whuah?”_

Wrathion's fear left, but the confused annoyance didn't.

“Wrathion, it's Anduin.”

There was a long pause – and then a sudden, cold wall of mental force cut between them, and any indication of Wrathion's presence disappeared to be replaced by a hard silence. 

Anduin had to hold back a flinch; this mental slab felt almost physical, _touchable_ in its strength, like someone had speared a disc into his forehead and separated his head in two. It was not only this that unnerved him, but it was the chilliness, the feel like steel and rock, that this barrier radiated.

Well, that didn't bode well. Wrathion didn't like to be woken up (Anduin had tried it, once, trying to poke the whelp into wakefulness and getting his fingers bitten instead by a half-asleep dragon) but this felt a bit different than simple annoyance.

Wrathion's next comment only solidified Anduin's suspicion. “How did you figure out my gem, Anduin Wrynn?” The Black Prince snapped, his tone a sneer.

“It was fairly easy,” Anduin quipped lightly, speaking aloud and forgetting there was no need to. He tried to focus his thoughts inward, to speak mentally. “I'm sorry for ruining your game – and for waking you up, it seems.”

He was half tempted to ask Wrathion if he'd woken the dragon from nightmares. Anduin doubted Wrathion would feel _fear_ at someone contacting him through a gem, and Anduin himself knew well the exhausted fear he'd felt spring against him; he wasn't a stranger to bad dreams. But he kept the question back.

“You didn't ruin my game,” Wrathion answered, finally. “You were just unaware it was going on, prince.”

Anduin paused. That didn't sound good either. He gave the gem a critical look but bit back the retort that welled in his throat.

“I see.” Anduin sighed. “Do I want to know what that means, or not?”

At first, nothing answered but that closed-off coldness. Anduin was becoming increasingly aware he'd probably made a bad mistake with contacting Wrathion. Whatever was wrong, he had done it at a really bad time.

“No. What do you want, Anduin Wrynn? You _did_ interrupt my sleep.”

“I'm sorry. I just should have thought of that.” Anduin turned the gem again in his hand; it looked like he held a burning ember against his palm, the glow seeping through the cracks in his fingers. “I was having trouble sleeping, and I thought I could distract myself by -”

“Figuring out my gem. Yes, yes, alright. But do you _need_ anything, or are you just going to chatter at me uselessly?”

Now this was taking it a bit too far. Anduin glared at the gem, about to snap some equally nasty, angry retort before catching himself; he frowned, pausing. His chest felt like it was vibrating, goaded on by what was surely the residual anger from Madam Goya that had kept him awake for all this time.

That... didn't feel right. Arguing was one thing, but this anger felt poisonous. 

“I wanted to check up on you, too,” Anduin said, pushing past the discomfort. Gingerly, he shielded away all thoughts of Goya again, making sure Wrathion heard or saw nothing about the Black Market leader, and how it had been the pandaren that had said he would be returning to the Tavern tonight. “How are you doing in Townlong?”

Again there was a long pause; Anduin would have thought Wrathion had simply fallen asleep, save for the gem's lit iridescence still shining. 

“I'm no longer _in_ Townlong.” Another pause. “Did you honestly think 'checking up on me' was a good idea at – oh, what is it? Three in the morning?”

Anduin ignored that. “You're not in Townlong?” He asked, feigning surprise. “Where are you?

“Is this an interrogation?”

“Yes. You've caught me. I'm afraid I'm spying on you and relaying all your words to my father.” Anduin rolled his eyes and ran a hand down his face. He took a deep breath. “I'm just curious, Wrathion. Do you really have any reason to be suspicious of me?”

“Mm.” Wrathion sighed, which sounded like a funneled sound through Anduin's head, high and reedy. “Well. I am _not_ in Townlong any longer.” He paused for the utmost time; Anduin couldn't recall a point when Wrathion had been so hesitant with his words... except their talk in the tent, when Wrathion had begrudgingly opened up to him.

But this was a different sort of hesitance – this was calculated, as cold as Wrathion's mental barrier.

“I am at the Veiled Stair,” came the Black Prince's reply. 

So Madam Goya _had_ been right.

Now came the question Anduin was wary to ask. “You brought Sabellian back to the Tavern?” 

He felt his body tense as he dreaded the answer, like a weight had settled down on him. Something in the back of his head – something that was _not_ Wrathion's voice – was telling him he knew what the answer already was, but he ignored it. Please, Wrathion, Anduin thought, deep in the recesses of his mind, away from the Black Prince's presence, I hope you did the right thing.

But this time, Wrathion didn't hesitate in answering.

“Sabellian is dead, Prince Wrynn.”

Anduin closed his eyes. For a brief moment he felt as if he'd fallen from a great height, his body slack, but soon the weight settled to lag against his chest, pulling against the center of his heart. 

“How?” Anduin demanded. He nearly asked 'why.' 

“Don't sound so angry,” Wrathion admonished. “I'm sure you remember Sabellian's signs of madness in Townlong? You even pointed it out to me, I believe.”

Anduin pursed his lips. Yes, he remembered: Sabellian's broken eyes, the flicker of deep-set anger and the sudden look of fear as the dragon had recollected himself, all in that brief instant Anduin had said his goodbyes. He'd thought, then, perhaps, it'd been just because of being so close to to the death-grounds of the Sha of Hate... Anduin hadn't wanted to think it could be the Old Gods, so he hadn't, as if his own mind rejected the possibility and simply blocked it out. A coldness grew at the back of his throat.

“Yes,” Anduin admitted. “What of it?”

“Unfortunately,” Wrathion said, but he didn't sound as if he _felt_ like it was an unfortunate thing, “the old dragon succumbed to it on the plains soon after your leave. Have you ever seen a rabid dog, Anduin Wrynn? Though, well – I suppose you knew the madness of his sister. I'm sure it was comparable, though I don't recall stories of dear Onyxia nearly foaming at the mouth.”

Anduin said nothing. He was too busy trying to wrap his head around that Sabellian had lost his mind. He'd been so sure that the black dragon could have resisted it... Sabellian hadn't looked mad in the Kun-lai Cave, or mad at Lion's Landing, or in Sik'vess, even when he'd split Anduin's arm open. He'd just looked angry, not insane. What had caused him to snap? The Sha, like Anduin had earlier suspected had been affecting him?

“He killed – what, oh, all but three of my Blacktalons? No, worry not, Prince, Left is fine,” Wrathion added, obviously sensing Anduin's alarm. “But. I was incredibly lucky to have killed him when I did. A madness like that would have caused insurmountable damage if unleashed.”

“ _You_ killed him?”

Wrathion's mental wall, which had since lost some of its terrible, unwelcoming chill as he'd spoken, began to grow steely and cold again.

“Yes,” Wrathion snapped. “What, does that _surprise_ you?”

“No, I -” Anduin stopped himself and sighed. “Alright. Maybe it does.” He tried to picture Wrathion somehow killing a dragon the size of a house with a small blade and came up blank. “Either way – _nothing_ could have saved him?”

“No.”

Anduin supposed it didn't matter. Saveable or not, Sabellian was dead, and that was that. Anduin just wasn't sure what to feel. 

On one hand, he was happy Wrathion was truly and finally safe, away from another threat that could cause him harm – that this whole situation was, more or less, over. On the other, Anduin felt honestly sorry for Sabellian. The dragon hadn't seemed _bad,_ not really. 

To lose his sanity like that, put down like some “rabid dog” when he'd just wanted to help his family...

“You should hardly feel sorry for him,” Wrathion huffed, and Anduin jumped. He'd forgotten to shield his thoughts. “I told you this might happen, didn't I? That he would... _succumb_ to what he truly was.”

“Yes,” Anduin conceded. “I only hoped it wouldn't happen. If he'd been at Outland -”

“He wasn't at Outland, though, _was_ he?” Wrathion was becoming increasingly agitated. Every word was a lash. “He was here. Trying to kill _me._ And he lost himself. Not every story has a happy ending, Prince Anduin. I did what I had to do, and what's done is very much done.”

Curiously Wrathion had adopted a defensive snap which Anduin was unsure what to make of. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe the Black Prince's bad mood had something to do with Sabellian's death, but Anduin wasn't about to ask.

_He would have been at Outland if you'd negotiated with him,_ Anduin thought to himself. _There was a chance of that. But you were too stubborn._

He was surprised by his bitterness. Why was this affecting him as much as it was? He rubbed at the soft of his throat. 

“Now, can you please _leave_ me alone? A small round of applause for solving my gem on your own, but I really do need to sleep, you know,” Wrathion complained. “I have somewhere to be in the morning.”

“Where?”

Wrathion made an aggravated noise, but through their mental connection it only sounded like meshed static. The gem began to grow dull.

“Wait! Wrathion, wait. I need to talk to you.”

The gem grew the smallest bit brighter.

“We _are_ talking.”

“No – face to face.”

“Why?” Wrathion sounded both unenthusiastic and... suspicious, almost wary. Anduin frowned at the gem. He wasn't sure what to make of that.

Anduin hesitated. “It's important,” he said, lamely, then wanted to kick himself for such a vague explanation. He should have thought of a better one before – but then again, he hadn't really thought he'd be able to work out the gem. 

Wrathion sighed. “ _Fine_.” Anduin's head bubbled with the dragon's incoherent mumbles. “I _will_ be at the Stair, but at an... event. Thankfully Right's body was found. Left wanted a funeral. So here we are.”

Anduin felt like he'd been slapped. His chest already felt heavy with Sabellian's death, but it grew even heavier, a sheer weight on his body.

“They found her?” Anduin repeated. For a moment he was back at the Tavern, watching the smoke rise as Left and he searched for Right and the others. That felt like a lifetime ago.

“I know you're not deaf, Anduin – actually, no. I take that back. You're awfully stubborn when -”

“I'd like to be there,” Anduin interrupted. He sat up in his bed and gripped the gem tighter. He hadn't known Right very well; she'd been as silent as Left had been before Anduin had gotten to know the orc. But Right had sometimes smiled at him when he'd visited the Tavern, or when he'd come down from his room in the morning, during his first long stay there during the events of the Thunder King. Even without words she'd seemed friendly, and she clearly meant something to Wrathion and, of course, Left. The Black Price might have said only the orc had wanted a funeral, but Anduin was sure Wrathion more than agreed to the idea; after all, Right had been one of the ones he'd lamented during his possession of the Sha, and Anduin didn't forget that.

He didn't forget Left's hesitance about abandoning the search for Right before going to save Wrathion, either. Anduin hoped the steely orc was doing alright.

“Color me surprised,” Wrathion drawled vacantly. 

“I won't be long. I'm in the Shrine. The Veiled Stair is just beyond the mountains.”

“Well. Be quick, then.” The gem was already growing dull again. “And so help me, Anduin Wrynn, if you wake me up when you arrive you'll lose all of your fingers.”

Anduin smiled as he got out of his bed. “I get the hint.”

The gem grew cold, and Wrathion was gone.

Well, Anduin thought as he grabbed his shed clothes, which were hanging at the edge of the bed, this was better than staring at the ceiling and waiting for the sun to rise.

\----

Sneaking out was far easier than Anduin suspected it was going to be.

Upon getting changed, he'd written a quick note to his father, telling the King where he'd gone off to. He supposed Varian would at least be happy about knowing his son's whereabouts, if not annoyed Anduin had snuck out for the utmost time. 

Oh well. There wasn't much else Anduin could have done.

After he'd gotten changed, he'd walked out to see his guards returned – but sleeping, propped up against the wall, limp, like puppets who'd had their strings cut. He checked for vital signs, worried Goya's goons had done something worse than simply knock them out, but they were fine, and Anduin slipped past them.

As it had been the other night, the Shrine was dead in the deep evening, save for the casual adventurer or two. Getting to the stables, which was on the top floor overlooking the Vale, was easy, and tacking his white gryphon, who'd been wary to see him (he could basically see her question in her dark, inky eyes: “ _what_ _ **now**_ _?”_ ), had gone quickly, if not a bit clumsily with all of his injuries.

Off he'd flown, circling the Shrine of Seven Stars a single time before heading off to the southern mountains, where through the jagged pass was the Veiled Stair. 

The farther he'd flown from the Vale, the lighter his chest felt, as if a great weight was lifting. The gnarled knot of frustration that began with Goya and continued with Wrathion's iciness fell away, and Anduin started to feel... well, _normal_. He hadn't realized how _off_ he'd felt before flying through the mountains. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but he had other things to worry about.

Like finding where the Tavern _was._

Anduin squinted through the mists that stretched far below him. He knew the Tavern – or the remains of it – was down there _somewhere_. He'd flown past the pass, and he'd done this before; he knew where it was supposed to be, but the fog, as thick as a storm cloud, blanketed the mountainside, and the darkness wasn't really helping.

“Alright, girl,” Anduin murmured. “Let's go down.” 

He dug his heels into the gryphon's side and leaned forward, and the animal complied; she tucked in her wings and dove.

They burst into the fog. It tickled Anduin's cheeks in a cold, wet wisp and clung to his hair. 

The ground swept up in front of them.

Anduin hardly had time to yelp, let alone pull up on the reins. But thankfully his gryphon was quick and she tore up before they were able to crash; Anduin's face smashed into the mount's feathered neck from the rebound, and he groaned before pulling himself up.

Real graceful, Wrynn, he thought. His gryphon huffed and hovered.

Anduin shook off the daze so he could look around. The fog was still thick, but he could _see_ through it. Just ahead he could make out the skeletal remains of a tree, and then another, and another. They looked like emaciated figures, standing there in the mists – like risen ghouls, waiting for him. Anduin wrinkled his nose and gently prodded his gryphon to land. 

They had to be the burned trees from Sabellian's flame. The Tavern had to be here somewhere, right? 

He led his gryphon forward. He felt like he was trying to navigate a maze as he swept by the trees and other things that jut out suddenly from the mist – a fallen branch, a bench, a fence – and he was sure he was going in circles when the outline of the destroyed Tavern grew hazy in the distance. Anduin smiled. Finally.

He spurred his mount forward until the Tavern was right in front of him, and, gingerly, jumped off. Did he imagine it, or did the inn look... well, less destroyed? As he grabbed his cane, Anduin eyed the building. It did seem a bit less... _burnt._ He noted that one of the holes in the walls was beginning to be patched up. He doubted that was Wrathion's doing.

As if sensing his cue, a grizzled voice called out: “Welcome back, Prince Anduin.”

Anduin turned – and smiled wide. Tong was standing at the entrance of the Tavern, a steaming cup of tea wrapped in his great paws. Anduin leashed the reins of his gryphon to the destroyed kite stand, pat her flank, and – cautiously – bound up the stairs.

“Tong,” Anduin exclaimed, smiling wider, “I'm glad to see you're alright!”

The old innkeeper returned the smile. He looked weathered, tired; his fur was curled and unkempt and his eyes were dark, as if he had not slept in days. 

“Thank you.” He motioned inside the Tavern. “Please, come in. There is a chill in the air I do not like.”

Anduin nodded his thanks and slipped by the pandaren. Tong followed. 

Quietly, the prince took in the devastation inside. The main room was dark and dank, lit by only a handful of the surviving yellow lanterns. They cast a warm gloom upon the place, like they were in the belly of a firefly.

Glaring at him, on the opposite sides of the room, were two Blacktalon agents: a blood elf and an orc. Anduin didn't recognize them. He nodded politely and nearly jumped when he realized that they were flanking Wrathion's table and bench, partially destroyed – where on it slept Wrathion himself, curled into a small ball of black and purple scales. 

Well, Wrathion _looked_ alright, Anduin supposed – but it was difficult to tell in whelp form if he'd sustained any more injuries when Sabellian had gone mad. He eyed the Black Prince a moment more before turning to Tong who stood behind him, and, remembering Wrathion's warning, lowered his voice in turn.

“I heard you escaped with Madam Goya,” Anduin whispered. He leaned harshly on his cane as his left leg began to suddenly cramp. Tong must have seen his discomfort, for he moved away and slid the single surviving chair out from near the wall and motioned for Anduin to sit. 

The prince did so, murmuring a slightly embarrassed thanks. The sooner this leg healed, the better. He placed a hand, warm with Light, against his aching thigh and began to rub in the gentle comfort.

“Yes,” Tong said, after Anduin had sat. He took a sip of his tea then must have realized Anduin was without a drink, for he motioned to his cup as if asking if Anduin wanted any of the same. Anduin shook his head. “Madam Goya was helpful,” Tong continued. “But she is an -... assertive individual. I was glad to leave her, to come back to this place.” The innkeeper looked around; Anduin couldn't read his expression. Was he angry? Sad? Frustrated? Tong was never one to speak much. Any conversation they'd ever had had been in passing, or in small doses. The pandaren was a presence in the Tavern, but always a guarded, dutiful one. He did what he was asked, and that was all.

Anduin had to respect him, though. He couldn't imagine being Wrathion's waiter and putting up with it quietly.

And now his inn was destroyed. Anduin ran a hand through his hair, wet slightly from the fog. Light, this whole Sabellian fiasco had definitely affected others besides Wrathion. It was like a domino line falling. 

“I'm sorry about your Tavern,” Anduin murmured. He glanced at Wrathion and looked back at Tong. “Is he going to help?”

“He said he would,” Tong replied. Wait, there was something – a slight twinge of... annoyance, maybe?

“Well, he will. I'll make sure of it.”

Tong gave him an undecipherable but keen look. 

Anduin stood. “Do you know where they're keeping Right?”

“Upstairs.” Tong nodded to the stairs. “Be wary of the steps. I've yet to fix them.”

“Thank you.” Anduin took a last glance at the sleeping Black Prince and headed up to the second floor.

Tong hadn't been lying about the stairs. Going up was difficult enough with his leg, but every other step seemed to be missing. He had to hop up like the mountain goats which jumped up the rocks outside, and nearly fell once, but he made it, huffing and puffing, 

At least it wasn't hard to find where Right was. Anduin snaked through the room where Wrathion and he played their game, careful not to step on any of the scattered pieces, and noticed the first room was the _only_ room lit, if only by a small glass lantern placed on the floor near the door; the wax pooled around its delicate base.

The door was open. Anduin took a breath. He should have probably waited to see her until her actual funeral, but he felt like it couldn't wait. There was an insistence tugging at his temple, and he followed it without much question. He went in the room – and almost jumped three feet in the air. In the dark he hadn't noticed Left standing guard on the opposite end of the room, until he saw the eyes glowering at him like some ill-tempered ghost's.

“Left,” Anduin breathed, composing himself. “I didn't seen you.”

She looked as if she was made of shadow, and the pinpoints of her blue eyes, as sharp as frost, were the only things even hardly visible.

“What are you doing here?” Left demanded. She crossed her arms over her chest; Anduin was surprised to see her without her crossbow. Her eyes grew colder.

He was almost tempted to ask the same thing, had he not looked over and seen the white sheet, pale as a moon, draped over the single bed in the room. Anduin didn't have to ask what it was.

“I came for Right's funeral.” Anduin locked his eyes back with Left. 

The orc made a low grumble in her chest. 

“Then get out. It won't be for hours.”

Now came the hard part. Anduin looked away from Left. He'd thought about this on the flight over, but standing with Left, with Right there, he felt a bit ridiculous – like he wasn't sure what he was doing here.

But something was telling him he _had_ to be here. He had to help, somehow. 

“I was... actually wondering if I could bless her,” Anduin said quietly. “I've never done it before, formally, but I know what to do.”

He'd sent prayers, of course; he'd done in the privacy of his own mind or sometimes out to the public, praying for those souls lost in war after war to find the Light in their darkness. 

But blessing an actual body... well, that was much different.

Left stayed silent. Anduin wasn't sure what her reaction was – she was as guarded as ever – but he saw her thinking behind that serious face.

“She's a human,” Anduin reminded, as if that wasn't obvious, “I can try to do it right by her race, if you'll allow me.”

Left made another growling grumble, but Anduin could see her swaying in her resistance: how her shoulders loosened, her grip on her arms growing limp.

“Fine,” the orc grunted after a tense period of silence. “But I am going to stay here.”

_And watch if you make any mistakes_. Anduin got the message. He took a steadying breath. 

Despite his exhaustion from his insomnia, the Light was quick to warm his chest. He focused on that buoyed feeling of comfort and peace, and as he went to the side of the bed, he spread it through his body until it tingled at his fingers and the soles of his feet. 

The Light felt stronger within him tonight. Maybe, Anduin mulled, it realized what he had to do. He let it guide him.

But as he went to pull back the sheet, he faltered. Anduin had seen bodies before. He wasn't a stranger to death – far from it. 

Was he really qualified to do this? Anduin grabbed a hold of the sheet and swallowed his doubts, which melted down like the wax of the candle outside. 

He pulled back the cover.

Anduin sighed. Right was pale in death, her honey-colored hair pooled around her shoulders with a surprising radiance that Anduin wasn't sure was possible for an older body. He looked the guard over and held back the well of sadness tickling at his throat; her face was scarred and bruised, and her blue and gold outfit was bristled with spots of mud. Without thinking Anduin reached out and brushed some of the dirt off. Left growled.

“Now what?” The orc demanded. 

Anduin frowned. The Light was progressively growing hotter in his chest, like the beginnings of a Holy Fire. 

“What do orcs do for their dead?” Anduin asked. He raised a hand and hovered it over Right's chest; his fingers were glowing faintly.

The question must have caught Left off-guard, because she didn't answer immediately. Anduin began to center himself, to pull all of his focus inward, as the orc stayed silent; when Left spoke, her voice was reserved, wary.

“We burn their bodies,” Left murmured. “In the flame they go through the elements. The spirits. It steels their souls so they are strong enough to find the afterlife with our ancestors.”

Anduin focused on Right's face. Centered, he pulled upon the memory of her good-natured smiles and kept it in his mind's eye. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“I didn't know that,” Anduin said quietly. He knew the orcs burned their dead, of course, but not the reasoning behind it. “I think it's similar to ours, in a way.” Even though his eyes were closed he knew the glow in his hand was growing, as the heat, the Light, there was shifting up, becoming more powerful. “We ask the Light to help those who have moved on be strong enough to find the other side – like the elements and spirits help.” Anduin heard his voice falter. His focus wobbled, but he quickly drew it back into its pinpoint at his chest. 

Had his mother found the afterlife easily, he wondered? Had Bolvar? Had Aerin? Anduin scrunched his eyes so tight that little sparks popped against his eyelids. The Light pulsed once against his temple, like a reminder, and Anduin relaxed again, though his mouth was dry.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. His entire arm was aglow with a heavenly, gold-white sheen; he looked as if his arm was made of molten metal, hot to the touch, like the tempered swords in the smiths of Ironforge.

He might not have been able to personally bless the bodies of those he'd lost, to help them find their way out of the darkness but with his own private prayers, but now, he could help Right. 

Anduin splayed his hand and twisted it so his palm was facing down at Right's chest. His head became pleasantly numb, but remained centered; Anduin began to feel as if nothing existed but this place in this time, with this darkness of the room and the glow of the Light possessing him. 

When his fingers stretched out fully, tendrils of Light curled from their tips – and like growing vines they sluiced downwards in curving rivulets to make a pool of liquid-like iridescence at the curve of Right's throat. It lit her face until her skin looked as if it glowed again with life, as if the Light wanted to mask this look of death and sorrow.

When Anduin opened his mouth, the words flowed through him as naturally as any other, as if he had done this many times before.

 

“Let her pass unharmed through the gates of death,” he murmured, though his voice was as strong as the very force of Creation and Life itself strumming in his body. “Allow her find the strength to push through the Darkness.” He moved his hand in a gently twirling motion, and the golden pool of Light against Right's chest began to spread in all directions across her body: it spread down to her cloaked legs, it flowed over the slope of her shoulders, it swept up against the curve of her face. Within moments the terrible slash marks were gone, and the bruises healed, as the Light poured over her.

“Accept her into safe-keeping and eternal rest,” Anduin continued, “and let perpetual light shine upon her. Grant her Respect, give her Tenacity, and bless her with Compassion.”

Gently, the Light seeped into Right's body to disappear beneath her skin. She glowed for a moment, faintly, before growing dark. 

It was over. Anduin exhaled, and the shine in his own body dulled and the warmth of the Light inside of him cooled. The room grew dark, and Anduin lowered his hand. 

He blinked. He felt like he'd just woken up from a deep sleep, though he did not feel tired.

With that sort of fog in his head, he was only dimly aware of Left standing next to him as he began to come to. He didn't remember when she'd moved, but now that she was close to him, away from the shadows, he could see she'd recently been injured; a bruise struck her temple and there was a long scratch mark against her tunic, thick enough where he supposed she'd been slashed underneath. 

“You healed her face,” Left murmured. Anduin nodded. He hadn't known he could _do_ that.

“Usually there's... candles.” Anduin bit the inside of his cheek and the stupidity of his own statement. He gestured vaguely around the room; suddenly, he wasn't sure if he'd done enough, remembering the grandness of Bolvar's own “funeral,” though his had been without a body, of course. “And incense... sometimes more prayer -”

“Stop wringing your hands like that,” Left snapped, though Anduin wasn't actually _wringing_ his hands. “Right liked simplicity. I'm sure she was fine with what you gave her.” She paused, then added: “It was beautiful. Thank you.”

Anduin looked at her. He felt his throat close and sour, but not with sadness or fear. Left sounded like she meant it, and she was looking at him so intensely that even if she grabbed him and shook him there wouldn't be any more action than there was in her look at that moment. Anduin swallowed and bowed his head.

“I'm glad I could help,” he said. He gave Left a wobbly smile. “Thank you for allowing me, Left.”

The orc nodded her head at him.

Their honest moment broke when Left looked away and her eyes grew hard again. It was like watching a paladin don her armor, and Anduin was suddenly reminded of an older human funeral rite, where the strongest of the household would stand guard over the body until the funeral, taking no drink or eating no food. In theory they were supposed to guard the spirit as it made its way to the Light from all sorts of forces of darkness; Anduin wondered why Left was doing it, and if there was some orcish equivalent. He decided not to ask, too aware that prying during a hard time like this was more than rude.

“Why did you do it? You hardly knew her.”

Anduin shrugged. He looked away and, gently, placed the sheet back over Right's body. He sent another quick prayer for her, more of a pulse of good will to her than any actual words.

“I know. And I wish I did know her more,” Anduin admitted. He ran a hand through his hair. “But that doesn't mean she deserved less – and she's important to Wrathion and you. I know that. If I could have helped in any way, this was it.”

“She liked you.” Left seemed surprised she'd spoken and wrinkled her nose, her tusks going lopsided. “More than I did, before Sabellian came. I thought you were an annoying pest, how much you aggravated and softened his Majesty, but she thought you were good. For him, too.”

Anduin had to smile, touched. 

“So, Right liked simplicity?” Anduin asked. Left squinted at him. 

“Yes.”

“I'm sure she must have found it hard working for Wrathion, then.”

Left snorted, but her lips wobbled like she was trying to hold back a smile. Anduin wasn't sure if he'd ever seen the orc actually _smile_ before. 

“Go away. You've done what you wanted. Now let me resume my guard,” Left said after a moment, but her tone held no malice. 

Anduin nodded. “If you need anything -”

“Go _away,_ Anduin. I still think you're a pest.”

The prince smiled and left.

\---

Wrathion thought he'd only imagined the tugging at his wings, but as he'd groggily woken and squinted his eyes open, he quickly became aware of someone sitting in front of him with a light grip on one of his wings as they extended it up and down in mock flight.

Wrathion jumped and hissed. He readied a fireball in his throat before his vision grew sharp and he realized who it was.

“Anduin Wrynn!” He went to snap at the prince's hand, but Anduin was quicker, and seemed to expect the reaction; he pulled away and Wrathion's mouth met air. Much to Wrathion's chagrin, Anduin was _smiling_ about it.

“Good morning,” Anduin said pleasantly. He folded his hands in front of him. Wrathion glared and grunted. His head felt weighed down like he was wearing a helmet, fogged with sleep and quickly forgotten dreams – or nightmares, he wasn't really sure which. Judging by the ball of discomfort lodged in his chest, though, he guessed the latter.

Wrathion tucked the offended wing close to his body. “Don't do that.”

“Don't say good morning?”

Wrathion glared. Anduin smiled.

“You _know_ what I mean.” 

Ignoring the other prince, Wrathion yawned and looked around, shaking himself out to try to get the numbness of sleep off of him. Well, Anduin wasn't lying – it _was_ morning, at least an early one. Replacing the gloomy smokiness of the Veiled Stair's evening darkness was now a warm, though dull, light. The sun hadn't fully risen yet. 

Wrathion flexed his claws and sat up. That didn't stop the light from illuminating the room more than the lanterns from last night had. Now the devastation was shown in full force: every splinter of burnt wood, every hole in the wall, every shattered piece of china, grew evident... though without the shadows, it all seemed less eerie, less hopeless, like a ghost shown only to be an actor with a mask. 

“ _Where_ are my guards?” Wrathion asked, once he noted the blood elf and orc were gone at the sides of the table.

Anduin nodded his head to the circular entrance of the inn. “They're outside helping Left.”

Oh. Now Wrathion knew why Anduin had woken him up.

He jumped off the table and shifted into human form. 

“They _left_ me unguarded?”

“Well, I was here.”

“Mm.” Wrathion scratched at the back of his hair and yawned again, all his sharp teeth peeking from his dark lips. He smacked his mouth closed and hummed, then looked at the entrance.

“I suppose they're... ah -... getting it ready?” Wrathion turned to face Anduin and found the blond prince staring at him. He had an openly questioning look on his face, like he was listening to Wrathion speak another language and was trying to figure out what the hell he was saying while he stayed politely silent.

Wrathion glared. “What?”

Anduin dropped the look – mostly. His eyebrows remained only slightly tilted, like he was halfway concentrated on some problem, and Wrathion recognized the look from when they'd played their board game. Anduin always had it on his face when he knew his pieces were in trouble, but he wasn't trying to let Wrathion know. Wrathion had teased him about it, once, but it seemed Anduin hadn't improved his poker face. 

That only reminded Wrathion to put on his. He placed it on silently as he looked down at Anduin.

“Nothing,” Anduin said. 

Wrathion rolled his eyes. He looked away and around again. It was hard to actually believe he was back here, like nothing had happ -... well, alright, he supposed the mayhem of the Tavern was evidence enough something “had happened.” 

Which made Anduin Wrynn being here worse. Of course Wrathion been surprised the prince had figured out the gem, but he was mostly aggravated that Anduin was contacting him again so early. Anduin had the terrible habit of making Wrathion's guard drop. How he did it, Wrathion had no idea, but he did it. But Wrathion wanted to simply forget what had happened, and with what happened at Sik'vess, Wrathion didn't want the dear, kind-hearted Anduin Wrynn to get nosy. 

That look of his made Wrathion wary – but he was prepared to shut out Wrynn's questions and prodding, if Anduin decided something was amiss. It'd gone well during their talk over the gem – Wrathion hadn't let any feelings through, had _enjoyed_ the mental block, how much power he'd felt over the situation – finally! - and he'd only continue it as long as Wrynn was around him.

As it should have always been, anyway. The damn golden prince. The sooner he was gone, the better.

“But yes, they're getting it ready,” Anduin continued. He rubbed at one of his eyes and glanced at the entrance. Wrathion wondered when he'd got here. He didn't ask.

Wrathion stretched. “Where is Tong when I need him? I'm parched.”

Anduin stared at him with disbelief. “Can't you give Tong a break? He looked exhausted. I don't think he wants to be your waiter right now.”

“I'm paying him, aren't I?” Wrathion gave Anduin a sharp look. He wasn't in the mood for this. “And I am generously helping with the Tavern's rebuilding. That's more than enough. The least he could do is fetch me a drink, don't you think?”

Anduin sighed but, surprisingly, didn't argue. 

It was steadily growing lighter in the room as the minutes clocked by and the sun slowly rose. Wrathion, tired of standing, sat next to the other prince, but faced outwards at the entrance: his usual position. 

Doubtful any champions would be walking through _those_ doors anytime soon, though.

“It must be nice to be back here,” Anduin said. Wrathion hummed noncommittally. “Honestly, I thought we weren't going to see each other for a while.”

If only. Wrathion smoothed down his leather sash.

“Well. It's certainly better than where I was,” he answered. 

Anduin nodded. He hesitated before speaking again. “I saw Left's injuries.” 

Oh. Wrathion stiffened. He hadn't thought to wire his cover-up over Sabellian's death to Left; he hoped she hadn't said anything to give him away. 

“Did you get hurt anymore when Sabellian...?”

“No.”

Anduin pursed his lips. The prince didn't believe him. Wrathion bit back a scowl.

_Physically, you are_ , some voice whispered. _But how is that mind of yours? Is it breaking again, or hardening into stone?_

Wrathion beat the thought back, annoyed at himself. 

“Your cast looks terrible, though.” Wrathion looked over to see Anduin swiveling in his seat and extend one of his hands – but he didn't go to grab Wrathion. Instead he kept his arm hovering, waiting for the Black Prince's permission, and Wrathion nodded. Gingerly, Anduin held Wrathion's arm in both hands and plucked at the stringy, stretched ends of the gauze. “I'll have to recast this.”

“You should _heal_ it,” Wrathion argued, ignoring the question. Anduin glanced up at him. “Fully.”

“It depends on how it's doing, and... well, usually you're supposed to rest it, but with all the stress you've -”

Wrathion pulled his arm away. Anduin blinked with alarm and dropped his hands.

“Fine, yes, alright.” He ignored the curious look Anduin was giving him and turned away again.

They said nothing for a long time. Birds were beginning to cry in lilting calls. Farther off, he could just make out the distant cry of a hawk and the crunch of grass underfoot outside. 

The prince's silent was both tense and awkward. Wrathion had to force back the tempting notion of speaking again to break it as he normally did, but each word he spoke kindly to Anduin would only break his shield. Who knew what weak foolishness he would say around Anduin? He hardly trusted his own voice.

“Wrathion?”

“ _What_?”

“You did the right thing – with Sabellian.” Anduin wasn't looking at him. “You were right. You said he could go mad.” He turned to look at Wrathion straight in the eye and, absurdly, a pang of guilt tapped at Wrathion's chest. “I'm glad no one else got hurt.” 

And then Anduin smiled and put his hands up defensively. “And that's all I'm going to say about it. I promise.”

Wrathion stared. He studied the blond's face for signs of a lie, for that sloping brow, for a frown – but there was none. Anduin was genuine.

What a surprise.

Wrathion cleared his throat. 

“I _know_ ,” he said. “You don't need to tell me that.”

Anduin shrugged. A small smile tugged at the sides of his pale lips. “I know,” he repeated. “But it's always nice to have someone to confirm what you feel – at least, I think so.”

“Touching, Prince.” Wrathion scratched idly at his goatee. “Why are you here, again?”

Anduin's smile fell. Now there was a look on conflict on his face that Wrathion wasn't sure what to make of.

“I wanted to be here for Right,” he said slowly. “But I wanted to be here for Left and you, too.” He paused, and his eyes flickered, and Wrathion saw him thinking behind those blue eyes of his. “I'm sorry she's gone. I know that sounds empty, but I am sorry.”

Wrathion shrugged. 

“She was just a guard,” he mumbled, vacantly. “I've lost dozens of Blacktalons.”

“Did they get funerals?”

Wrathion glared, though Anduin hadn't said it with snark. 

Smoke drifting from between his grit teeth, Wrathion looked away.

“What else do you want? You said you had something _important_ to speak to me about, didn't you? If that's gushing about your feelings, you may as well leave. I have business to attend to after this is over.” 

Anduin locked his jaw and his eyes grew hard. In the single instant his face transformed from kindness to frustration. “We can talk about that afterward.”

“You're being very vague.”

“I must sound very familiar, then.”

Wrathion huffed. “And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Nevermind.”

They lapsed into an angry silence.

Well, Wrathion thought bitterly. At least _this_ seemed to be normal.

When he couldn't stand it anymore, Wrathion stood. “Well! I'm going outside. Join me if you'd like, prince, if that leg of yours doesn't stop you.”

Not waiting for Anduin's reply, he left the Tavern, the wood creaking underneath his feet.

It was actually darker outside then he'd thought it would be. Though it'd been light in the Tavern, spread out, the light was thin and weak out on the mountain side; long, sharp shadows stretched from the burnt trees. From the eastern wind of the Jade Forest came a warm current that smelled of flowers and wet grass – an unfitting smell of life in this destroyed place. Wrathion thought it distasteful. He liked the earth well enough, but sometimes it was cruel in its own private ways.

The thick fog from last night was gone, at least, replaced by the Stair's usual mists – so Wrathion could easily spot the large pile of wood near the the left edge of the mountain, which overlooked the Jade Forest. 

Some of his Blacktalons milled around it. The orc who was supposed to be guarding Wrathion was busy chopping small pieces of wood from cut-down burnt trees that lay in a dwindling pile next to him.

Wrathion spotted Left. She was arranging the cut pieces of wood around the base; they looked like the finishing touches. In a way, the stacked wood was strangely beautiful, like a solid spider's web, interlaced and locked with great care.

The grass behind him crunched.

“The mountain doesn't have any yielding soil,” Anduin said as he came up to Wrathion's side. He smelled like parchment and soap. “Left had them look, but the only place close enough for a _burial_ is the Jade Forest. She didn't want to risk carrying her down so far.”

Wrathion eyed the wood pile. 

“A pyre, then?” Wrathion hummed. His own inner flame (Gods, how much he cherished the warmth there; he'd hope to never lose it again) flickered at his chest. “Hmm. I like it.”

“Why's that?”

“I _like_ fire. And, besides! It's much more fitting to burn a body than putting a body in the ground.”

Anduin stared at him.

“How is that 'fitting?'” Anduin asked, confused.

“What's the point of being put in the ground in a single place when a part of you can sail on the wind?”

Anduin shifted his weight back and forth. “That's certainly one way of looking at it.”

Wrathion turned his attention back to the wood pile. Left was standing straight now, rubbing the dirt from her gloves onto her thighs. 

And with the sun rising steadily, casting even longer shadows and brighter colors of gold and purple against the edge of the cliff, Wrathion could now see the small bundle on top of the unlit pyre. He stared at it.

The knot of discomfort from his forgotten nightmares, which he'd thought he'd tucked away, resurfaced. He blinked hard and scowled. 

Trying to distract himself, he said: “Does Father Wolf know you're here?”

“Father Wo -...? Oh. No. But I suppose he will soon.” Anduin sighed. “I feel like some sort of criminal, sneaking out at night again and again.” He shrugged, and his mood seemed to lighten as his eyes softened. “Maybe he'll realize one day he shouldn't have to coop me up.”

Wrathion smiled in amusement. “How lucky I must be to be free of that sort of situation, prince. I couldn't possibly imagine being barred up like that.”

Anduin squinted at him. “I guess so. I know he does it for my safety, but -”

“All the same, parental figures seem so...” Wrathion twirled his hand, searching for the word. “Aggravating.”

Anduin shrugged again. “Sometimes, but... they mean well. My father does.”

Wrathion sifted his fingers at the back of his hair. He was watching Left. The orc was barking orders to the other Blacktalons and making aggressive movements with her hands, pointing them into two flanks on each side of the pyre, left and right. When that was done, she locked eyes with him. When had she noticed he'd come outside? Her back had been to him the entire time.

Better not to question her talents.

Wrathion nodded at her. She returned the gesture, then turned her back to him again.

Wrathion thought the orc was only bowing to Right until Left struck out a hand to grip onto the pyre as she bent over and knelt her head, her long ponytail swaying behind her shoulders. She remained like that, unmoving. 

What in the world was she doing? Wrathion tilted his entire body, putting almost the entirety of his weight on one foot so he could lean harshly to the side, and tried to crane his head to see over Left's shoulder. He noticed Anduin give him a look of alarm and... warning? but he ignored it.

Left's mouth was moving, and her eyes were closed. Wrathion couldn't hear what she was saying from this far off, but he was actually glad he couldn't. It was a private conversation and one he had no wish, for once, to eavesdrop on. 

He suddenly understood why Anduin had given him the look: the prince had known what Left was doing.

Slowly, Wrathion swayed back into his default position and looked away from Left, giving her a moment. 

“Have you been to a funeral before?” Anduin asked. Wrathion shook his head, but he was relieved Anduin had spoken.

“No. I suppose I was never invited to one, was I?”

Anduin laughed quietly. 

No - he'd never been to a funeral. Or a burial. Or a pyre, or what-have-you. He'd never seen what his champions had done to the bodies of those he'd asked to slay, if they did anything at all with them. 

Of course he'd _read_ about it. He'd _heard_ about it. When he'd researched the Alliance and Horde leaders from the comforts of his Tavern he'd been honestly impressed with all the different methods... how the night elves returned their bodies to the earth, how the tauren mummified or burned their dead, how the humans were buried or put away into stone vaults like idols. 

And then he'd shied away when reading about how black dragons seemed to simply throw their fallen kins' bodies into a boiling vat of lava to smolder forever in the Obsidian Dragonshrine, and that had been the end of his research.

He was glad when Left stood straight and turned back to him. Wrathion realized it was time to start the whole event.

He made his way over. 

Wrathion glanced at the Blacktalons who'd made the two walls at the sides of the pyre. There were – what, only _six_ rogues here, in total? Wrathion scoffed. He'd lost too many, and at this point, he wasn't counting on those he'd sent to finish the job at Blade's Edge to come back, which was another blow to his numbers. He'd need to hire more.

“Excellent work, Left,” Wrathion said. Close up, the pyre was taller than he thought it was; it came up to his chest. Replacing the plainer sheet that had covered Right's body was now a more elaborate piece of full, black silk, embroidered at the ends with interlaced red serpents of Pandaren design. Wrathion wondered where it'd come from, but decided not to ask. 

Left grunted in way of response. Her hands were clasped behind her back and her elbows locked so tightly she looked like she would snap at a single touch.

It took a moment for Wrathion to realize she wasn't even looking at him. She was looking at Anduin.

“Are yo u sure this will do?” Left asked suspiciously. Wrathion looked between the two, confused. 

Anduin nodded. “It's fine. Humans do this sometimes, too.”

Wrathion squinted. Do what sometimes? He was suddenly beginning to regret being asleep and missing out. 

Left ground her teeth. She looked like she didn't quite believe Anduin, but finally she sighed hard through her nose and relaxed just the slightest bit. “Fine. Good.”

“Excuse me.” Wrathion waved his hand impatiently to the two, and they both looked over. “What is this about?”

Anduin glanced at Left. The orc ground her teeth again so hard Wrathion could have sworn he heard her jaw popping.

“I was unsure if a fire would be fitting for a human,” Left grumbled. “Many of the Horde – the orcs – practice pyres.”

“What does it matter? Right wasn't part of the Alliance or the Horde.” Wrathion smiled brilliantly. “She was a Blacktalon! Practically part dragon. I think a pyre is fitting for _that_.”

Left relaxed even more.

“So. It's all ready, then?” Wrathion continued, and Left nodded silently. 

He paused. Wrathion could feel his cold front beginning to slip. He allowed it – for a moment.

“And are _you_ ready, Left?”

“Yes.” She glanced one last time at the silk before looking away and nodding.

Wrathion nodded sharply. He gazed over at the black silk and took a step forward. 

If he'd never been to a funeral, he'd never known how to act in one. Respectful, of course, but -...should he say something? Wrathion rubbed at his upper arm and bit his bottom lip. 

Low enough where Left or Anduin couldn't hear, he murmured: “Ah... thank you for your service.” 

That didn't feel like enough; he frowned largely. He'd rather speak to Right herself than speak to a hidden body.

Which Wrathion couldn't do. The finality of her death hit him; he paused before he continued.

“And I do need to thank you for sacrificing yourself for me,” Wrathion added. She'd distracted Sabellian with the crossbow and gave time for Wrathion to shift into whelp form and escape – and she'd given him the idea to hide in the Auction House with all of its assorted weapons, which had delayed his capture. He was loathe to think of what else would have happened if Right hadn't been able to intervene.

Wrathion hesitated, but slowly, he reached out and touched the end of the black silk. It was cold underneath his fingers. 

“I'm not any good at this, am I?” Wrathion grumbled. “I have no idea if you can hear me, wherever you are – if anywhere – but I'm sure you can at least see _that_.” He glanced up and saw the sun beginning to peek up along the tall, slim hills of the Jade Forest. 

No elaborate words came to him. Wrathion closed his eyes and took a breath before he turned his attention back to Right. 

“You were a good rogue and a good friend. Apologies that I was a regrettably bad one. I suppose I'll have to work on that.” He pat the small handful of cloth and let go. “Goodbye, Right.”

Wrathion stepped away. Something instinct told him to bow - so he did, bowing his head in a show of respect, and when he stood straight, he pulled at the flame in his chest. Wrathion put a hand up and, palm straight, swept a fire across his hand to set the pyre into flames.

It began to smoke instantly. Wrathion's red flame ate into the side of the wood and spread quickly, dancing back and forth across the interlaced pattern of the pyre. Though the sudden wave of heat that gusted outwards from the growing inferno didn't bother him, Wrathion stepped back until he was at Left's side. 

With the heat, Left was standing a yard away from the flames – Anduin Wrynn, however, was much farther back, sweat beading his forehead. Whether Left could withstand the burning better or if she refused to leave Right's side any father despite the discomfort, Wrathion didn't know.

It didn't matter. Wrathion stood by her and watched the flames rise until they finally engulfed the entire frame of wood in a roar of fire and heat. The flame must have reached three yards high, spinning and waving and hissing in a powerful show that captivated him. 

A good way for a brave woman to go, he thought.

Neither he or Left looked away from the smoldering flames as the sun rose behind them in a kaleidoscope of red, orange, gold and purple. 

How long they stood there, Wrathion didn't know. When the flames finally began to die, the sun had risen and his knees ached. Where the pyre had been was now a small dusting of black ash that already was beginning to be swept away by the Jade Forest's western, warm wind, along with the risen smoke. Wrathion watched it drift away.

Finally, after another long period of silence, he took a deep breath. It was done.

Wrathion glanced sidelong at Left. She was staring at where the wood had been; her eyes were shadowed but unmistakably sad, but the rest of her face was hard and cross, as if she was a statue only halfway come to life.

“I think she would have liked it,” Wrathion murmured. 

Left's eyes flickered and sharpened, like she'd just woken up from a trance. She rubbed at them in a swift movement with the back of her hand and crossed her arms over her chest.

“It was good,” she agreed, her voice slightly hoarser than usual. “Powerful.”

Wrathion nodded. He took another last look at the place the pyre had been and sighed loudly. 

“When you're ready, come inside. We have business to take care of.”

Left looked relieved for the change of topic. She nodded sharply. 

Wrathion turned away and, holding himself high, swept back to the Tavern, ignoring Anduin's following gaze.

Right was given her rest. Good. The final shreds of Sabellian's destruction were beginning to fade. 

Now Wrathion needed to focus – make up for lost time, shape new plans, send new Blacktalons to learn the status of the war and the pit in the Vale. It was nice to go back to normal thoughts like those, rather than be plagued by ones surrounding stupid, aggravating alchemists and his children.

Wrathion practically hopped into the Tavern. 

Ah – yes. Sabellian was dead, but that left the rest. 

Wrathion supposed he'd take care of that next.

\---

Of all the ways Sabellian thought he would die, dying alone in a cavern deep underground wasn't one of them.

He was honestly a bit disappointed. And angry. He'd always assumed he'd die fighting or, if he was lucky, going peacefully. _This_ fate, though – this was underwhelming, but no less painful. 

No – actually, he took _underwhelming_ back. This death was hell. Each breath was pain and each movement, however slight, was agony. 

And worst of all, the earth pressed on him on all sides, immobilizing Sabellian into an inescapable trap. He could hardly breathe. The rocks dug up against his scales, and the four pillars in the center of the tall room pressed into the thick membranes of his wings and threatened to cut off all blood circulation there. They felt cold. _He_ felt cold. 

But he couldn't move, and he couldn't shift back into his mortal form.

The minutes that had led up to his fate felt like mere blurs of memory. He'd been too weak to fight the mantid, the wounds from the harpoons finally beginning to sap the scraps of strength he had left, and when Wrathion had turned towards him – well, he'd certainly been too slow. The dagger had pierced him and then the chaos was gone, and Sabellian was alone in the room, bleeding out so quickly he could feel his own life slipping away. 

When he'd seen the blood on his hand, he almost couldn't believe it. After ten thousand years, he was going to die. He was going to drift away and never wake up. 

He was never quite sure of whether to believe in an afterlife or not, but he hadn't been keen on finding out so soon.

Some instinct had overtaken him. Unthinking, too weak of strength for coherent thoughts, he'd shifted into dragon form. The room had exploded around him in a cacophony of sound that seemed to rattle the entire kypari tree.

Sabellian had gotten himself trapped, then. His form was too large for the room, as he'd thought. The walls, the pillars, the rock – they'd all pressed against him and crushed up against his harpoon wounds in a burst of fresh agony. And the _earth_ surrounding him so closely, gripping against his sides, sucking the breath from his lungs -... he'd begun to panic, thrashing wildly in what little room he'd had until he'd realized he was only making it _worse_ when half of the left side of the room collapsed down on his back and suffocated him further into claustrophobia and misery. 

So he'd gone still. At the time, he took comfort in that he'd delayed his death, his form bigger and the wound, in turn, smaller – though it was internal, now, deep inside his gut, and he knew he'd still die anyway in this dark, dank place that smelled of dirt and his own blood.

He was going to die. The finality hit him hard, and he was dazed by it. Nothing he could do could stop the bleeding; it was too deep a wound and, ironically, he'd sealed his fate when shifting into dragon form to postpone his death, as now he was too weak even to shift back into human form where the injury could possibly, desperately, be staunched. He'd doomed himself.

“You stupid fool,” he'd murmured.

Then he'd tried to get up.

The rocks were too heavy and he could not move them with physical force. He tried to fight. His claws had screamed and scratched against the earth in screeching rumbles. He'd tried to force himself through the pain, through the growing weakness in his movements, through the gradual haziness that his mind was beginning to succumb to as his wound bled inside. 

Sabellian had stopped when the agony became too much. It was hopeless. He would die down here, alone, and there was nothing he could do.

Defeated, he'd laid down his head and simply waited to die. 

He may have found comfort earlier in delaying his fate, but that was _then. Now_ Sabellian _wished_ for death to come quickly. The suffering, the agony of each heartbeat, was not worth a few more precious minutes of life. He took comfort in a grim sort of way how much weaker his breath came as the minutes passed. 

Sabellian should have been angrier. Even _he_ knew that. He should have been angrier at Wrathion, angrier at the mantid, angrier at everyone but his own self and his own family. He should have still been fighting to escape this fate. 

He'd lost too much blood to care; he was too weak and too far gone to feel, to even muster the slightest bit of aggravation. It wasn't exactly a sense of peace that inhabited him, but just -... a sense of nothingness, a blankness, where all he felt was a wish to die.

Sabellian wasn't sure what to expect when he died. Nothing? Hell? Somewhere in-between? He wasn't afraid, had never been, but he was morbidly curious. A nice long sleep would do him well, he thought. He deserved that much, at least.

As he mulled to himself, he stared at the rocks crushed up against his head and wished he could see the stars; at least that would be a good last thing to see. Even the red nether-streams of Blade's Edge sounded nice. At least he would be with his family, had he been there.

His family -... for a moment something flickered hot in his chest and he tried to pull himself up, but he collapsed back down not a second later. 

Wrathion would go for them next, now that Sabellian would soon be gone. 

Again Sabellian tried to stand up, and again he fell down, his knees buckling underneath him and the earth, the very thing he hated and feared, pushing back down against him. 

He couldn't do it. Not even for his children. 

A faint sense of shame and anger at himself bristled the back of his softening consciousness. _Get up_ , it was screaming at him, but from a distance far, far away. 

Sabellian tried to listen. He tried to move his legs but found he could not even do that anymore. 

Samia would protect them now, he thought vacantly. He could not any longer.

At least he might be with those he had lost soon, _if_ there was a place beyond death. The thought of seeing Kesia again only spurred his wish to die tenfold. 

Sabellian paused. Had he heard a voice?... No, voices, muffled beyond the rock.

For a horrifying moment Sabellian thought they were the whispers of the Old Gods returned, but as he focused, he realized they were coming from the entrance of the room, which had been blocked off, he knew, when the left wall had fallen in his desperation. His tail, too, was crushed up against it, mixed in with the rubble. 

Though muffled, this hissing clicks of the mantid were unmistakable. In his haze, Sabellian didn't know what they were saying. No doubt they were wondering how to get back in. Hah. He took some satisfaction in knowing it was impossible, and even if they did, he'd be long dead by the time they got their claws on him. At least he wouldn't succumb to the Old Gods with that foul sonar of theirs. He would have laughed at them, had he the strength to.

As the pain went on, and he began to slip away farther and farther, the noises, too, drifted off. 

Sabellian wasn't sure when he finally closed his eyes, unable to keep them open any longer. It could have been minutes or hours, but it mattered little - he could feel the blood pooling into his throat, foreign, and he knew death was close. The sense of relief of finally being free of this pain felt almost physical. 

He drifted off into darkness.

\---

Sabellian was awake.

Was he dead? He remembered closing his eyes and falling away... but his body still hurt.

Wary, Sabellian opened his eyes.

Well, it was certainly dark. 

Maybe he was in hell. Sabellian wasn't sure if he really deserved that -... but, well, maybe he did. Most of his life he'd been a corrupt monster who'd destroyed thousands of lives.

Thinking about how many families he'd probably murdered in his madness made him sad. He missed his own. 

No - this wasn't hell, though it felt like it. He was still alive. 

But something had woken him up. Sabellian heard a curious buzzing noise that sounded faintly familiar and very annoying. He'd been ripped away from his relief for _that_? -

A low keening whine echoed off the rocks. Sabellian stiffened. That was one of his children's cries. He was a good enough father to know which one it was: Nasandria.

For a disorienting second he thought she might be here in the room with him, but he realized where it was coming from: the mechanical whelp. Of course. That was the buzzing sound, coming from his side where his satchel had been hanging at his waist. He tried desperately to turn, to try to grab it, but he forgot he was trapped, stuck, and too weak to move.

_“Maybe you’re busy, but I just wanted to let you know I’m not sick anymore.”_

There was her voice. Sabellian mentally gripped onto it like a lifeline, and for the briefest of moments he felt some will within him stir. 

Nasandria was alive, and healed. The relief was stronger than the relief he'd felt before he'd drifted off into unconsciousness to escape his own pain.

_“I think Alexstrasza the Life-binder healed me.”_ Pause. _“And Kalecgos is here, too. I’m either very lucky or in a very strange place.”_

_Where are you_? He wanted to ask. Again he tried to twist himself in an attempt to grab the whelp but the rock was too strong. Sabellian snarled weakly in frustration. _Where are you?_

_“I still don’t have my arm, though. It’s hard to get used to.”_

_Sabellian stared at the wall._

_“Are you okay? If you’re not, I can come find you. I’m okay, now. Like I – like I said.”_

_“Well, if you’re busy, I can try again later. But please be okay. I know that’s stupid, but – I mean, you can’t get hurt that badly.”_

This was some cruel joke. Sabellian growled. That flicker in his chest from before grew brighter until it burned like a flame in his throat. His daughter was alone and waiting to find him and here he was, dying, unable to answer or help her.

The buzzing stopped. Sabellian snarled again in frustration. This was true helplessness, he thought. 

That was when Sabellian finally started to get angry. 

Nasandria's voice, his beautiful daughter's voice, had stirred something back to life in him.

What had he done to deserve this? He'd done terrible things, but they had never been a conscious choice of his. Did that not matter? Was he doomed anyway, cursed to carry the burden of his race even in death, to be punished for sins he'd never have done if he had the ability to deny them? Had Gruul not been a terrible enough blight upon him? 

He should have never helped Wrathion. That's why he was dying down here. He'd assisted the damn whelp not once, but twice – and where had that gotten him? Dying alone and bleeding to death in the dark. Outstanding.

Sabellian cursed the Black Prince with every swear, hex, and spell he knew. He hoped Wrathion would suffer like Sabellian had and currently was. He wished for the dragon to go blind, to have his wings ripped off, to have his throat slit.   
Why had he ever ripped Wrathion from the trance the Klaxxi had put upon him? A moment more and Wrathion would have surely fallen to Y'shaarj, with how much of the Sha smoke had surrounded the young dragon's form. At the time, Sabellian hadn't even wished his enemy to go through the hell that he'd spent the majority of his life living, being a slave to the Old Ones -... but now? How wonderful it would be for the Black Prince to go insane. Sabellian wished for that, too. He even wished for Wrathion to maybe even kill the golden prince in that madness, to watch his single friend die. Yes. That would be good.

Replacing the haze of death was now a sheer pit of anger and hate so harsh and so terrible he felt as if his entire body was being consumed by it. He had been a coward and a fool to give up so easily before, and the shame that he, Sabellian, son of Deathwing, giving up like a _weakling_ because his wounds simply _hurt_ him was enough to make the anger rise even further until he saw red and smoke drifted in pluming puffs from his snarling mouth.

He was not going to die down here and abandon his family. That was no longer an option. 

Some small bit of his mind was warning him of this strong sense of hate and malice, but he ignored it. 

Willingly, he handed himself over to his own wrath.

It was as if some monster had awakened inside of him. Where he could not stand before, he could now, pushing himself up against the ceiling with a thunderous roar that shook the earth around him. 

The ceiling began to collapse. Sabellian pushed himself up against the side of the left wall and focused on the earth in the one way he'd dared not done in years, but now, with his anger, his hate, there was no fear for the Old Gods underneath. He connected to the earth in an instant, felt the rock come to life around him, felt the spread of Azeroth beneath his claws. With hardly a thought he commanded the rocks to stop collapsing against him, and they obeyed. The earth trembled as if in fear of him.

Another flick of a claw, and suddenly the entire ceiling imploded in on itself, bursting backwards, higher and higher. It tore through roots, ripped through higher hallways and rooms, and opened itself large enough where even in his massive dragon form Sabellian could move inside. A shower of earth and amber crashed down on him, but Sabellian felt nothing, not even the pain of his own wounds that were killing him, anymore. 

Sabellian gripped onto the sides of the tunnel and ascended.

The tunnel he'd created finally reached the top level. The fresh air that swept down into his face as he climbed _,_ and he only quickened his pace.

His claw met the edge of the opening. Sabellian dug his talons into the grass and pulled himself out of the ground before collapsing to the plains, heaving in deep gulps of the cold air.

He was noticed fairly shortly after that.

Sabellian glanced up when through his red haze he heard the buzzing of wings – and saw behind him the great shadow of Sik'vess highlighted beyond it by a distant cloud of darkness that at first he thought was a cloud but quickly realizing it was thousands of mantid fliers.

Those closer near to Sik'vess had noticed him. Two dozen began his way. He recognized the helmeted form of Kil'ruk at the side.

Sabellian's anger was quick to erupt again. He stood up and his pain was forgotten for the second time as the mantid descended.

They did not stand a chance. Sabellian cut them down with a white-blue, smoking flame and set half of them on fire. Kil'ruk was yelling: “ _Leave him! Fools, leave him!”_ but when the others tried to escape, he swatted them out of the air and crunched down on their flimsy bodies, reveling in their pained cries as they died in his teeth and claws.

Soon the soldiers were dead, but Kil'ruk had gone. Sabellian didn't care. They'd only been a nuisance. 

He shifted into human form and stumbled, forgetting in his haste and anger the wound that was still draining him of life. Quickly, like an after-thought, Sabellian pressed his hand to the bleeding wound as he undid the satchel at his waist and brought out the mechanical whelp. It was slightly crushed from his escape, but workable. Unthinking, on auto-pilot, he tapped into its location device, the very same they'd use to find the one Wrathion had had from the nether-drakes.

First, Sabellian would find Nasandria. He would kill anyone who might be keeping her wherever she was, even if that one was Alexstrasza or Kalecgos, or both. The odds didn't matter. He'd make them suffer.

Sabellian coughed, and blood dripped down his mouth. He ignored it.

Quickly he shifted into dragon form, the whelp in a claw, and from its mouth came faint beeping noises. He raised his wings and jumped into the air.

And then – then after he had found Nasandria, he would track down the Black Prince again. And this time there would be no mercy, no second thoughts, and no small, fleeting thoughts of empathy. 

The thought of Wrathion suffering in ways so unimaginably painful and cruel was enough to make Sabellian fly the smallest bit faster, leaving behind a trail of blood below.

 

 

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

 

Nasandria was having a suspiciously dreamless sleep when a curious beeping woke her.

Thinking she'd imagined it, she pulled the blankets around her closer and grumbled. But no – there it was again, the gentle beeping coming from the far end of her bed. She hissed through her teeth and threw off the covers.

“So you're going to speak now, huh?” Nasandria sighed, rubbing at her crusted eyes as she sat up in bed and kicked away the sheets. Hiding at the edge of her bed, half-hidden by the blankets, lay the whelp automaton. It regarded her with its ruby glare as it continued to beep quiet but firmly, its metal mouth open.

Sighing, Nasandria leaned and grabbed it. She felt exhausted. Sleep hadn't come easily last night, and she didn't like to admit that she'd cried herself into it. To be woken up by the same little demon that had caused her so much stress last night was some bad joke, and though she'd had no dreams to torment her, the pain and loneliness was still sharp in her gut. 

Her distasteful glare at the whelp, therefore, was warranted. Nasandria sat it on one of her raised knees. Why was it making the noise? If Sabellian wanted to contact her, he would have simply spoken. A small kindle of hope lit at Nasandria's chest. Maybe he was okay, she thought -... but this wasn't normal. 

Suddenly she recognized the noise: it was from the honing mechanism, the very same she had used to connect to the whelp Wrathion had taken from the slain nether-drakes. Nasandria's grip tightened. That meant -

She sheared up the whelp's metal chest and saw the red gem, its power source, pulsing inside like a heart – each in tune with the beat of the beeps. It was connected to the other whelp... the one Sabellian was supposed to have.

Nasandria couldn't have done it in her sleep – and she was beginning to realize the beeps were steadily growing closer together, and louder.

She jumped from her bed. The smooth stone was so cold underneath her bare feet she slipped, though she was quick to keep her balance. Clicking the small scale underneath the whelp's jaw, she said, tentatively: “Father?”

Of course there was no answer. She scowled and went to sit back down, her enthusiasm dwindling, when the beeping began to pulse so quickly she was sure the automaton was about to burst. Smoke puffed from the whelp's mouth as Nasandria clutched it in her hand.

And then, sharply, the beeping stopped. 

Not a moment after a distant but monstrous roar thundered from afar, fueled with such instinctual malice the hairs on Nasandria's arm rose. 

But she knew who it was – the sound was unmistakable.

She rushed out of the room and into the main chamber of the temple to find that many were already gathered around the large open entryway; most were the fighters (did they ever _leave_ , Nasandria wondered?), their hands clutched defensively upon their blunt weapons, while the others were healing monks. Nasandria shoved past the crowd, ignoring the huffs of annoyance and instead focusing on the tension of the crowd: if they saw Sabellian coming, he'd be thought of as a threat instantly.

Unless she told them it was okay.

Finally she forced her way through to the front of the line and the cold rushed her face. Flinching, Nasandria raised her hand to block out the rising sun's harsh rays to the east. There, the sky had broken into a mosaic of reds and golds, pierced by the gentle glow of falling snow which melted upon immediately touching her. She hadn't had time to look out of the temple before, but now, standing in front, Nasandria could see it was an entire expanse that spread out across the mountain: numerous walled courtyards, their rounded towers caked with snow, carved pathways, and other roofed temples like the one behind her dotted the cliffs. Immediately in front were stairs leading down to a hanging bridge that led to one of the courtyards; other monks training outside had gathered there and, like the others, were looking curiously out at the east where the roar had come from. They, too, were holding weapons; whether they had been training or had manned themselves for a threat, Nasandria didn't know.

Another monstrous bellow echoed off of the mountains, closer this time. The crowd behind her shifted uncomfortably. 

“Where's it coming from?”

“I don't recognize a sound like that.”

“Wait! There!” Someone shouted, and Nasandria followed the human monk's pointing hand. She had to crane her head around the enormous, imposing tiger statue to her side to see. But she saw quickly enough. To the east the quickly approaching black dot, a mist of melted snow vapor trailing behind it. As it came closer Nasandria saw red wings bright against the sun and her heart rocketed into her throat. 

“What kind of onyx serpent is _that_?” Another bystander asked, and Nasandria laughed suddenly, even surprising herself.

“He's not a serpent. That's my father!”

She was given strange looks, but she didn't care. 

“He's not going to hurt you unless you keep those weapons out. Put them away!” Nasandria snapped then, her happiness blotted by the fear these mortals would anger Sabellian into ferocity... and with those roars, the likes that Nasandria hadn't heard since his battle against the gronn, he was angry enough already.

At who? At her?

“That's a black dragon,” the human, who had pointed Sabellian out, gawked, and he turned to Nasandria with a dawning comprehension as he looked her up and down, noting her appearance. “You're -”

“I take it that's your father, Nasandria,” came a new voice from her right, and she glanced over with an annoyed scowl as Kalecgos appeared next to her. The blue dragon had deep purple bags underneath his eyes and his hair was frayed. Apparently he hadn't heard Nasandria's earlier proclamation, though he was looking out where Sabellian was approaching. Nasandria didn't like the way his hands tightened at his sides. 

“Yes,” said the drake, keeping her scowl. “You stay away from him.”

“Of course,” Kalecgos murmured. He frowned. “Nasandria -”

“Are we just going to ignore there's a black dragon standing right here and another big one coming over?” Exclaimed the human, and Nasandria whirled on him and snarled. He jerked back and nearly fell over onto the steps. She felt the others in the crowd stiffen. 

They had little time to react to Nasandria's annoyed outburst. A cry of alarm sounded from the closest southern courtyard, and Nasandria whipped her head back just in time to see Sabellian come into detail. His great wings blocked out the blinding sun and cast a shadow against the temple grounds. As he swooped closer, she noted with alarm a gaping wound thrust into his shoulder; a stream of dried blood clutched against his chest and forelegs like the red wax of a seal.

That was unexpected – but what she expected the least was for him to turn his head to the pathway leading to the courtyard and blow an unprovoked ball of fire below, where it exploded against the snowy trail in a burst of flame and rock. 

The reaction was immediate. Before Nasandria could snap from her shock half of the warriors rushed out towards the bridge. She was dully aware of people screaming until she realized that they were screaming at Sabellian, who landed with a mighty crunch atop the closest courtyard with such force some of the rock structure tumbled from beneath his claws. Somehow he managed to balance, one claw resting on one of the curved towers, and he let out an awful and terrifying roar that made the ground below her feet shake.

The defenders were nearly at the bridge. Nasandria came to her senses just in time to shift into her true form and bound from the steps. She landed in front of the mortals, wings extended, and snarled warningly, blocking them from crossing the bridge and from her father. As one rushed her, she swept out her single forepaw and smashed him away.

“Do not harm her!” Kalecgos yelled, still upon the steps leading to the temple. “Nasandria, your father – _look_!”

Nasandria only just heard him above the din of panicked yells. She looked to where Sabellian was again and didn't understand what she was supposed to be looking at. Her father was watching the pandaren flee the courtyard he was perched above, and his chest heaved painfully with great sucking shudders. There was another wound on his flank, as terrible as the one on his shoulder.

Then Sabellian opened his mouth, and Nasandria saw what Kalecgos was talking about. Grey-white smoke poured from his maw and as another fireball coalesced in his jaws, swathes of blue and white energy sparked around his teeth and merged into the flame. Sabellian let the torrent loose and it crashed again against the pathway, narrowly missing a group of pandaren.

Nasandria recognized the energy – Talsian had had the same curled around his face and claws as he'd lost his mind to the Old Gods.

A shock of pain burst across her neck. She let out a cry, more surprised than hurt, and jerked away. One of the defenders had smashed her weapon along her neck. Hissing, Nasandria swept out her tail and sent the human sprawling.

Sabellian screamed. The ground below Nasandria's feet began to crack and splinter like ice, and as fractures widened, slabs of rock half her size swept up from the openings. They struck half of the defenders and they went sailing over the edge of the ravine, though one managed to grab onto the bridge.

Nasandria jumped out of the way before her feet were able to be caught in the widening cracks. The remaining warriors had no other choice but to scramble backwards, and as their attention was elsewhere, she glanced again at her father. 

He was looking at her, smoke both black and grey, normal and tainted, spilling from his mouth. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment his clouded gaze cleared, his hatred replaced by an open worry -

A rush of static energy prickled at her fins. Nasandria ducked out of instinct, and a moment after an enormous beast of blue and silver leaped above her and over the ravine where the defenders had fallen. Kalecgos, in his dragon form, left behind a wake of crackling arcane energy that stung her eyes, and as he disappeared from view below, Sabellian screamed again and jumped off the courtyard. Whatever moment of clarity he'd had was lost, his eyes once again clouded with a milky sheen.

“Father! Stop!” Nasandria tried to yell, but he seemed deaf to her pleas. As he landed, he whipped his tail into the wall of the courtyard and half of the polished, snowy stone came crashing down. 

Yelling at him wasn't going to work, and Nasandria stopped herself from trying again. 

Whatever was wrong with her father – though with the smoke, Nasandria dreaded she already knew – had to be dealt with differently, and hopefully not with force.

Sabellian swept out a claw in a beckoning motion. Enormous slabs of rock again shot from the ground, but these were a yard or two tall, walls of stone that blocked the monks from leaving their temple – and more than just the main temple. They shot up along each of the buildings, separating those who had not yet gone out to defend away from those who had gone off to fight.

Kalecgos swept back up from the side. Without pausing, he dropped the monks he had caught from their deaths and then twirled to face Sabellian. His translucent cyan wings radiated a chill that froze upon her face with every beat as the former Aspect kept himself aloft.

Sabellian turned to the blue dragon. Whatever malice that had been on his face before amplified into something monstrous that even Nasandria found herself shrinking back as his snarling face contorted into something that was hardly recognizable as her father. She was glad for the ravine separating them, but that wouldn't hold him at bay for long.

“I suppose this is not normal,” Kalecgos mused, and Nasandria nodded. “Have you tried speaking to him?”

“What kind of stupid question is that? Of course I have!”

“I do not want to use force.” The blue dragon landed, and the cracks in the ground Sabellian had opened shuddered underneath his weight. He was enormous up close, easily dwarfing her in size, and smelled like the crackling ozone scent of magic. “The Temple will be destroyed.”

Nasandria was surprised by his answer but remained quiet. He was thinking the same way she was – though she didn't care about the Temple. She was just scared Sabellian would get hurt worse than he already was.

Sabellian turned to the defensive line coming from the east, the monks who had managed to get out of the temple before the block, and roared. He blew flame, though it was blocked by the monk's snarling tiger shields. 

“I am sorry, Nasandria. Sabellian will kill them all if I do not intervene.”

Before Nasandria was able to answer, Kalecgos lifted into the sky and glided over the ravine, and for all his bulkiness he flew as quick as a falcon.

The blue dragon smashed into Sabellian's side. The two went tumbling, snarling and biting, kicking up snow and rock. Nasandria had to leap around to watch them fight as they went beyond the crumbling courtyard. 

Sabellian found his footing, first. He lurched up, swinging out his right claw and smashing it against Kalecgos's head as the blue dragon attempted to rise. A great _crack_ resounded from the hit, but instead of falling, Kalecgos responded with a breath of ice that froze Sabellian to the ground.

Sabellian snarled. The tips of his horns began to glow with a pearly radiance, and as Nasandria leaped over the ravine, trying to get closer, he saw his eyes, too, grew white.

The ice encircling Sabellian's ankles began to shatter. Kalecgos backed up. Too slow. The black dragon broke free with a scream that was not draconic but ghoulish, a sound that made Nasandria falter. 

Ice shards went flying. She ducked into the half-destroyed courtyard. 

No sooner than she had dodged than the ground began to rumble. The screams and snarls of the two dragons began again, and the _oomph_ and hisses of claws on scales and hits on flesh sounded from beyond the stone walls. 

Nasandria pressed up against them and breathed hard. She couldn't hide in here. She had to do something. But what? She was not as big as Kalecgos, and could not stop her father by force – and if he was possessed as Talsian was, he would be difficult to reason with.

Scowling, she turned and hurdled out of the courtyard, vapor pooling from her hot scales from the cold air. By now Kalecgos and Sabellian had moved further to the left, down the narrow pathway of rock and snow that connected the pagodas. Both dragons hardly fit on the slim cliff; they stood facing each other as they fought. Blood trickled down the right side of Kalecgos's face, and it was difficult to tell if Sabellian had been harmed further. With all of his previous wounds, Nasandria had no idea which ones were fresh and which were old. Pools of dark blood coalesced in the snow where he had stepped, but did not steam in the cool air.

But Sabellian would not be knocked down. _Could_ not be knocked down. With each hit Kalecgos landed, each icy breath that scoured across his scale, Sabellian stumbled but did not fall. It should have been impossible. Kalecgos was as physically strong and as large as Sabellian was – at least, he looked it. 

But Sabellian stood strong through the impacts of Kalecgos's claws and teeth and magic.

This was not something to be proud of. Nasandria knew her father was strong, but this was something else entirely. She recalled how Talsian, fueled with the same dark energy, had overcome his wounds and charged past her with a strength that he had never had before. She realized the same was happening with her father. It was empowering him.

But Talsian had been a drake. Sabellian was a ten thousand year old son of Deathwing. Despite the populated temple grounds, Sabellian had the upper hand.

Kalecgos latched his teeth onto Sabellian's shoulder. The black dragon screamed. The sound sent Nasandria jumping into the air; she had to see a better angle of what was going on.

Kalecgos wasn't just holding onto Sabellian's shoulder. His teeth dug into the open flesh of the old wound Nasandria had first seen. Sabellian screamed again, a sound more... _ghoulish_ than draconic, and tried to lurch away. He managed to lift on his back legs and open his wings in the frenzy when Kalecgos let go and smashed his head into Sabellian's undefended chest.

Sabellian fell. Ice sparked up his legs, rooting him again in place as before. He thrashed, but where ice cracked and fell away, more took its place as Kalecgos stood before the black dragon and commanded the snow to slink up Sabellian's ankles and grow hard.

“I do not mean you any more harm,” Kalecgos said, and Nasandria could only just hear him above the howling wind that began to shear down from even higher mountains. “Nor do we wish harm upon your daughter.”

Sabellian flinched so hard more of the ice cracked and then, growing still, he tilted his head. He was not looking at Kalecgos. Steam from his heated body began to rise, and the snow that had not been coalesced into ice to freeze him to the spot began to melt around him.

He looked like he was listening to something.

From the corner of her eye, Nasandria saw the monks that had initially come out to defend making ranks at the main temple. There was some activity to the western and the eastern temples, too, though they were farther off and she could not see them as well. With that amount of numbers, Nasandria stood little chance defending her father from them. Kalecgos might not want to _try_ to hurt him – at least, so he said – but these mortals, defending their sacred space, would. 

A flash of red snatched her attention, and she turned back in time to see Sabellian breathe his white and red flame onto his bonds. Kalecgos was too slow to reseal them – even if he had been quick enough, Sabellian would not have been held down by ice. Not anymore. The glow in his horns had traveled to the ends of his fins and wings and to the tips of his claws. From her height she still felt the power roll off of him, and she shuddered, fearful of it.

Kalecgos stood little chance against the sudden, refreshed fury. Sabellian attacked him with such little respite and with such an amount of hatred and anger it was palpable, swirling in the smoke he left behind and in the roars and snarls that escaped his maw. 

Again Nasandria's fear returned. What if he couldn't be saved like Talsian hadn't? Would they have to snap his neck like a rabid dog's, too? 

Sabellian landed an uppercut swipe up the entirety of Kalecgos's neck. The blue dragon roared in pain. Blood spurt then pooled down his chest. 

Nasandria fumbled mid-air. For a moment she thought Sabellian had slit the former Aspect's throat, but as she landed on the western, standing pagoda, she saw the angle was wrong. The smaller scales from the softer flesh had been ripped away, but it was not a fatal blow.

But it was a painful one, and deep. Sabellian cut open another gash along Kalecgos's chest as the Blue was distracted by the first wound.

“Father! Stop it!” Nasandria screamed above the wind. What else could she do?

To her surprise Sabellian faltered.

The moment gave Kalecgos just enough time to get away, stumbling backwards out of range. His tail brushed up against the archway of the courtyard Nasandria perched on. With the slim outcrop, there was nowhere else to go but up, or down the cliff sides.

Sabellian recovered. He snarled for his lost quarry.

“Can't you use magic?!” Nasandria yelled down at Kalecgos. The Blue's long ears twitched. Sabellian charged.

“Nothing is working against him. I fear anything stronger will ki -”

Too soon, Sabellian was upon Kalecgos. The force of the tackle was so strong that it lifted the Blue onto his hind legs and Sabellian along with him. Nasandria hopped off of the pagoda as Kalecgos's wings and back smashed into the wall she had just perched on. 

Sabellian kept him pinned there. Again and again he pulled Kalecgos's form back with his forelegs and crushed him into the pagoda. Nasandria tried to yell again, thinking it might work as it had before, but Sabellian struck out his teeth and wrapped them around Kalecgos's bleeding neck. 

The black dragon pulled the other down. Kalecgos was too stunned to move away, snarling as Sabellian gripped his side with his front legs.

With a strength that should have been impossible, Sabellian lifted Kalecgos from the ground and threw him into the pagoda, where the stone walls thundered atop the Blue's crumpled form.

Sabellian roared and raised his wings. The blood Nasandria had seen earlier as pools against the snow dripped down his scales. It was -... black. Black blood. 

Her father stopped his scream and grew disinterested when Kalecgos did not stand. He turned away, his pearly eyes fixed on the main temple.

It grew silent. Nasandria only heard herself panting, the wind, and the rush of her heart. The remaining snow crunched under Sabellian's feet as he began to skulk to the eastern pagoda. 

What did he want? What was he doing? Sabellian left behind a trail of the unnatural blood, and Nasandria hovered high above, following him. She saw that the monks were beginning to make their way over the rock faces Sabellian had put -

… Up. The rock faces Sabellian had put up. Nasandria turned to glance down at her father. He'd stopped walking, as if confused on where to go.

Sabellian never, _ever_ used the earth. He'd banned it outright amongst the brood, and whenever he had caught one of them who'd tried to dabble with something as small as moving a pebble, they received such a verbal lashing that no one else dared try. Only Samia did, but Samia was often prompt to be stubborn to their father's wishes. Nasandria, though – Nasandria had never tried. She'd obeyed, as she always had.

But to think Sabellian himself had used it in the very way he'd always said not to... that was what truly hit her, more-so than the smoke and the corruption. Nasandria began to feel ill, and a helplessness settled on her wings, freezing them in place. She would have fallen if she had not remembered to move her wings again.

If her father moved the earth, then he was truly lost.

Before she knew what she was doing, Nasandria folded in her wings and landed in front of him. The snow around the slim pathway was swirled in an almost decorative pattern from where Sabellian and Kalecgos had fought. 

Sabellian stared at her. The glowing corruption along his body pulsed.

Nasandria had no idea what he was thinking. The snarl was gone from his face. He just looked... blank.

That almost scared her as much as the snarling had. She folded in her wings. The wind raced by them; it carried the scent of Sabellian's blood closer to her, as well as the smell of the mortals nearing...

“Father,” she said. “It's Nasandria.”

Sabellian flinched. Nasandria startled, remembering that same movement leading to the resurgence of ferocity that had ended up with Kalecgos crushed underneath the pagoda.

But Sabellian went still again. Did she imagine it, or did the white in his eyes and horns look... lesser? The smoke swirling around his form thinner?

“I called for you,” she continued. From the distance, Nasandria heard the monks rallying each other. Damn it, they just needed to stay away for a moment more. Maybe she could talk him out of this, though the idea sounded as silly as it did desperate. Even now she was shrinking back underneath his unblinking gaze.

“Remember?” She prodded, when he said nothing and reacted little. “I hadn't heard from you. I told you I was here.”

_With Kalecgos_ , she remembered. _I told you I was with him, and Alexstrasza._

Had he taken that the wrong way? Was that why he had been so transfixed on the Blue?

“But it's okay now,” Nasandria insisted. Sabellian blew vapor from his nostrils. “I'm okay, you're okay. Okay? And there are healers you can fix your wounds. You don't have to be angry at anyone.”

Sabellian looked at her, then. _Really_ looked at her. For the second time since she had seen him descend upon the temple grounds, he began to look clear-headed: the glow in his eyes fell away and was replaced with a deep-set pain and exhaustion. 

He stumbled forward but caught himself. Blood – _real,_ red, blood – began to drip from his wounds and steam the snow at their feet. Sabellian groaned, and his head drooped down, his snout nearly touching the ground.

Nasandria took a deep breath, hopeful. If the glow was beginning to leave his eyes, surely it could leave the rest of him.

She went to say more, to again try to coax the corruption away as she had, when the bells began to clang from the eastern and western temples. An alarm.

Sabellian whipped his head up. Nasandria was the one to stumble back, this time. The glow in his eyes had returned; his fins flared, and he snarled as he searched the source of the noise.

“Wait!” She yelled. Sabellian turned to her, unseeing, and shot a pressurized ball of flame at her.

Nasandria dodged. The impact on the ground sent her flying, but she struck out her wings before she could fall on her cauterized elbow. She twirled around, stricken, and saw that from the temples, more monks came. She saw they had _punched_ foot and handholds into the rock slabs Sabellian had forced them away with, and now unhindered by the blockades they could join the defense of their temple.

No. There was no way she would be able to fend them all off from both the east and the west. 

Sabellian, energized, greeted those coming from the west with another mouthful of flame. His moves, however, seemed more jerky, more unsure – and thus more frenzied in his confusion, like he didn't know what he was supposed to be doing anymore.

Crackling jade lightning came at him from both sides. It shocked against his scales, and he winced, wings twitching as the electricity shot through him and jerked his limbs in erratic motions.

“We need a precise paralysis!” One of the monks was yelling, a pandaren with a braid -... the monk who had helped and healed Nasandria. He must have sensed someone was looking at him, for he looked up and nodded at her, hovering above, before looking away and directing the others. “We can cleanse him easier if he is still!”

Cleanse? They weren't going to kill him? 

Sabellian attacked wave after wave, churning up his again-black blood in the snow and dirt until the ground was a foamy mush of grey and red, spilled carnage of those the dragon had managed to catch in his claws.

Sabellian had been too much for Kalecgos. He would be too much for these mortals, too.

Nasandria whipped around and soared to the destroyed western pagoda.

She skidded to a halt on the ground. Kalecgos wasn't exactly hard to find in the rubble. He'd been as big as the damn courtyard itself, so the large lump of stone was clearly where he was hidden under. 

With a sense of desperation Nasandria hurled away the stones. It would have been easier with her two forelegs, she knew, but she didn't linger on the weakness. She crushed it and surged forward with her remaining arm and caught up with the lost speed. 

“Kalecgos!” Nasandria yelled, aggravated he hadn't moved, not even as she revealed his head amongst the stone. His scales, once bright and beautiful, were bruised and tarnished with dirt and blood. “Get up!”

Kalecgos hissed in pain. Nasandria smacked him in the face with her claw, then again when he didn't open his eyes. The second time worked.

Sabellian screamed behind them. A mortal's yell of anguish followed.

Kalecgos got to his feet, pushing away the rest of the debris. His wounds were stuffed with dirt. 

“Listen, I know what to do, okay?” Kind of. She had no idea if it would work. Talking to Sabellian had calmed him a little, made the corruption lessen, but did she really believe the whole of the energy would flee him? 

But she was desperate. The monks would fall to Sabellian if Kalecgos didn't help. 

Did the monks know how to “cleanse” him? How did you cleanse someone of the Old Gods?

“Alright,” Kalecgos wheezed. He became considerably more alert when he turned and saw the monks and Sabellian interlocked in battle. “I'm listening!”

“You need to help paralyze him so they can cleanse him. I can help talk with him.” Her voice shook. What if it didn't work? 

Kalecgos paused, frowned, and Nasandria knew she sounded ridiculous. She didn't care, but she needed to _do_ something.

But the Blue nodded. “Alright. Let's attempt this. Nasandria, if it does not work, I will do what I must.”

Nasandria scowled and turned away.

She hesitated.

“What is that?” 

One of the pools of blood that Nasandria had seen earlier was moving in front of her eyes. 

But she quickly realized that she had seen incorrectly, before. These weren't puddles of blood. They were black like ink, sluiced with a tinted white.

And they were coming to life.

As she stared, the pool closest to her lifted. A hunched back rose, and spikes elongated down its spotted white spine just as a mouth full of white, razor teeth opened at the front. The _thing_ gave a wail. It turned to Nasandria, long, tentacle-like arms sprouting from its sides. 

“What is that?!” She repeated, snarling. 

The monster, which came up to her knees, charged her. With its limping, dragging gait, Nasandria expected it to be slower. Wrong. It pulled itself along with its arms and screamed again.

Flame erupted from her mouth. It exploded against the creature, and with a wail it fell as quick as it had formed. Smoke – white and black smoke which swayed around her father, she realized – rose from where it had died.

“The Sha,” answered Kalecgos. “It is what is possessing your father. What I pointed out to you, before!” Puffs of ice panted from his mouth. “Your father must have accidentally brought them here.”

“What the hell is _that,_ then?!” 

So this wasn't part of the Old Gods? A flurry of confusion and frustration stirred in her. If this wasn't the Old Gods, what _was it?_

“I'll explain later. Let's try your idea before your father can do further harm.”

Nasandria searched for Sabellian along the Temple grounds. It wasn't difficult to spot him. He'd made it to the western-most temple, higher up from the smoking pagodas. Around him swarmed the monks, dots in comparison to his girth. In his wake he'd left behind rubble, charred pockets of stone, and puddles of water where the snow had melted.

And then more pools of blackness, splotched like spilled ink.

Even as Nasandria watched, the other pools which had not yet stirred now began to move, climbing into their wicked forms, looking the same as the one she'd annihilated. Before the growing force of them – dozens, she counted - could turn their attention to her, she lifted into the air. Kalecgos followed. 

They swept up to Sabellian. His screams shook the air as much as they shook the ground below his feet; Nasandria had to change the tempo of her wings to keep herself aloft.

The Sha, as Kalecgos had called them, covered the temple grounds at a frightening rate. Where once there was only snow, now was a moving mass of the creatures. 

The monks, however, did not seem surprised by them. Half of them, without orders, working as a fluid team, detached themselves from fighting Sabellian to drive back the Sha.

Kalecgos landed in front of Sabellian, and Nasandria stayed further back, landing on the opposite side of the ravine – where she had stood in the very beginning. 

Sabellian enraged as he saw Kalecgos. He shoved the nearest mortals away with a flick of a claw and raised his wings.

The monk whom had healed Nasandria appeared on Sabellian's neck. He raised a hand and slammed a flat palm at the base of the dragon's skull.

Sabellian quivered, then froze in place, wings still risen.

It looked the paralysis was working until the smoke around the black dragon's form coalesced into a thumping, swirling mass nearly as thick as a solid. The smoke, not Sabellian, wailed, and burst around him, tossing the monk off and away, where he landed on his back some yards from Sabellian.

The smoke shot back into Sabellian. The dragon returned to life, roaring. Kalecgos began to lift on his wings, readying himself - 

“Enough.”

The voice cracked along the mountain in a deep boom like thunder. The defenders faltered, Kalecgos landed, and Nasandria herself felt compelled to stall, as if her paws had become rooted to the ground. Sabellian, too, hesitated, lurching forward but then slinking backwards as if the voice itself had struck him.

Nasandria glanced back. Framed by the two stone tigers was Xuen, who stood poised and as still as his statues. Though Nasandria had felt it when seeing him for the first time, the strength and power that literally rolled off of him in wisps of blue, celestial mist was almost incomprehensible. It was as if he was the sheer essence of Strength itself, manifested to stand there among the snowy, cold peaks – touchable and seeable. 

A blanket of rigid warmth flowed past her – coming from Xuen, she realized - and her anger melted away. The others, too, relaxed, and though their weapons did not drop in surrender the aura of poised calm that spread was more fearful than their panicked, angered cries.

Sabellian snarled. He had recovered from Xuen's command, and, after looking between the stalled Kalecgos and the Tiger, set his gaze on the Celestial, zoning in on the greater threat.

“A great anger possess you, I see,” Xuen called out. His tail swished back and forth behind him, reminding Nasandria of the lynxes in Blade's Edge... before they pounced. “One that blinds you, paralyzes you. We are not your enemies.”

Sabellian growled.

Xuen did what Nasandria did not expect. He chuckled. “Very well.” The tiger studied Sabellian, then nodded. “Yes. A great power comes from you. Come, son of Deathwing. Show me not your power, but your _Strength_.”

Sabellian's wings snapped open. With a hot rush of air, the dragon jumped over the ravine.

Nasandria scrambled out of the way as Xuen crouched, then burst off of the stairs in a mighty leap. As Sabellian began to touch down on the opposite side of the ravine, Xuen reached out his paws and, like a cat swiping at a bird, smashed them into the dragon's head and neck. Sabellian was lurched back, but Xuen did not let go. 

Instead, as Sabellian went to twist away from the great tiger's grip, Xuen landed on his back legs, and then twirled around with such force the ground below the Celestial shattered, and in the movement, he brought the dragon with him. 

The tiger lurched down, and smashed Sabellian into the ground so hard Nasandria felt her ankles wobble.

Sabellian's cry of agony broke whatever calming effect Xuen's presence had had. Nasandria bolted forward, raising her wings to glide over and assist, when the frozen monks around her leaped into action and blocked her path by their lofted weapons.

“Give Xuen a chance,” the one closest to her said. “If anyone can help, it's him.”

“He just _seismic tossed_ my father into the ground! How is that helping?!”

When the monks went silent, Nasandria went to back up and fly up and _around_ them, until she realized... _everything_ was quiet, not just the monks. There was no more sound of fighting, no whistle of cold wind. It was only Sabellian's ragged panting and snarls and her own heartbeat banging in her ears, though the silence was a sound all its own, toneless but heavy on her shoulders.

Everything was watching Xuen and Sabellian, and it felt like even the quiet elements were, too.

Sabellian tried to stand. His left foreleg wobbled dangerously, but even still he swept his head around and snapped his jaws at Xuen's throat. The tiger leaned his head back, but did not move away. His tail flicked. 

Xuen's lack of movement aggravated Sabellian more. The corruption began to warp his form even further; his tail grew spikes, his claws grew longer. Smoke billowed freely from his mouth. A dark pile of blood stained the snow below.

Xuen still did not move. Nasandria expected the tiger to look amused, to stare at her struggling father with a sort of pity, even, but he simply watched intently, the pinpoints of his bright eyes glowing hot through the falling snow.

Sabellian surged forward. In his wake curled waves of smoke that looked as if it was... _moving_ , coming to life, as his Sha-blood had.

He swept out his good claw in a reckless swipe. Xuen ducked and dodged, pacing to Sabellian's side. The black dragon stumbled and caught himself from falling by snapping out his wings, though when again he turned to charge the Tiger his teeth now were as disarrayed and lengthened as the small Sha creatures' were.

“He's making it worse!” Nasandria snarled, watching as her father attacked Xuen a third time. This round, Xuen deflected the blows of both claw and teeth with his own paws, and it enraged Sabellian further. The roar the dragon gave was unearthly. No amount of draconic thunder remained; it was the shriek of the dying, nails across rock. It made the monks around her shift uncomfortably, waning, for a moment, Xuen's granted poise upon them.

And Nasandria. How long could this go on? What was Xuen trying to do? He _was_ making it worse – worse than Kalecgos had, at least!

She just hoped Xuen wasn't about to snap his neck, as Sabellian had done to her brother.

Though the Tiger did not want to hurt Sabellian; that much was obvious. Every blow he gave was defensive, or forced Sabellian's attention whenever the dragon glanced over at the monks surrounding Nasandria. Nasandria was not even sure the Celestial was applying claw. It was as if Xuen was practicing with a blunt weapon as his monks had when Nasandria had watched them training the day before. 

Though the smacks and hits were blunt, they were not certainly not calming Sabellian. Each time the dragon missed or was deflected, the dark, hateful energy rolling off of him amplified more and more. Rivulets of white streaked across his scales, splotched and glowing. He screamed and stomped the ground like a bull after another vicious charge was dodged. The ground cracked underneath him and began to rumble like a living thing.

“Good!” Xuen praised in his rumbling voice, and Nasandria gawked. “Draw it out!”

She understood, then. Xuen wasn't necessarily trying to make it _worse –_ he was extracting it from Sabellian's core, so now it was exposed across his body, where it could surely be harmed.

Sabellian lifted on his hind legs. He shook his head back and forth and fire shot from his open, smoking maw. Xuen roared, and icy breath hissed from between his teeth; fire and snow impacted in a dazzling collision at the center.

And then, as Sabellian was still balancing on his back legs, Xuen thundered forward and lifted on his own hind legs. With a mighty toss he again pushed the dragon to the ground, teeth bared as he roared in command. 

When Sabellian's head smashed into the ground, smoke gushed from his eyes and throat. The smoke wailed and wailed, and wailed further still as Xuen set a paw on Sabellian's side and on his throat. It was fleeing him, escaping, and as it did it stripped him off the mutation it had left behind, until only the glowing eyes remained.

Nasandria's heartbeat rose to her head, so loud she almost shook with it.

Utter silence. The wails stopped. The whole of the temple held its breath as Xuen and Sabellian stared at each other.

The dragon struggled, once, flailing and kicking. Xuen leaned his weight on Sabellian and though the tiger was smaller than he, Sabellian hissed.

When the White Tiger leaned his head down, Nasandria thought he was about to rip out Sabellian's jugular. She began to surge forward -... when she saw that Xuen wasn't being aggressive. There was strength in his stance, in the sheer way he pinned the greater creature down, but he did not turn it against the dragon for a kill. 

Xuen was _talking_ to Sabellian.

Nasandria couldn't hear what the White Tiger said. But the longer he spoke the more Sabellian stilled, and the remaining glow and smoke around him slunk away. 

Sabellian arched his back. His mouth opened, and the last wail of the Sha escaped his throat. 

He slumped back down, still. Xuen stepped off of him and straightened.

Smoke not of the Sha enveloped Sabellian until he was crumpled on his back in the snow as his human form.

“Healers,” Xuen called out. “Come forth.”

Nasandria jumped forward as some of the monks disentangled themselves from the group. 

She made it to Sabellian first, almost tripping on her feet. Sabellian lay still, but he was breathing, each breath a battle, sucking and shuddering.

“Father.” Nasandria put her face close and the elder dragon opened his eyes. They orange, but dull, near-to-lifeless. She wanted to sob. His wounds – without the Sha energizing him, they were probably killing him. After all that, he was dying right in front of her eyes.

The monks joined her. 

“We've got him,” one of them said. “We can take it from here.”

Nasandria hissed and refused to move. Sabellian coughed, spitting up a handful of blood – only then did Nasandria notice the wound sunk into his midsection. A dagger's wound. 

She stood, numb, transforming into her human form as the monks lifted Sabellian like he weighed nothing. The cold bit at her face as the wind returned. 

“Your father will pull through such a trial,” Xuen rumbled. “He would not have been able to pull himself out of Anger, had he not had the Strength to.” 

The monks took Sabellian into the main temple. Nasandria stared at Xuen, the wind whipping her hair, before rushing up the stairs after them. 

Behind her, Xuen began ordering those remaining to hunt the Sha which remained scattered along the temple grounds, and his thunderous roar echoed into a thousand voices as he joined the fray.

\---

Anduin decided that he'd rather be helping downstairs with cleaning up the wreckage than looking for the scattered pieces of the board game, a task he'd been assigned after it was thought it would not be too harsh on his leg.

Wrong. Anduin was crouched on his knees, prying up a loose panel of the wood floor where two shiny white pieces from the game had fallen under when the Tavern had been attacked. His right leg ached, and as he leaned forward to snatch the pieces the added weight on his knee sent a prickling shot of pain up all the way to his thigh. He grimaced, but powered through it, scrambling for his cane on the floor and standing up. 

“Well, I found two more.” Anduin turned and placed them on top of the board game itself, where it rested on the table. He glanced at the pile of black and white pieces they'd retrieved; they were still missing a sizable amount. 

Wrathion's reply was muffled. Anduin looked around the table and saw the whelp come trotting from the far side of the room with at _least_ eight pieces stuffed in his mouth. He jumped up on the board game and spat them out.

“Are you going to wipe the dragon spittle off?” Anduin asked. Wrathion huffed at him and sat on his haunches. 

“The honor is yours,” the Black Prince replied, before gingerly hopping off the table to seek the rest of the round pieces.

Anduin shook his head and took the moment to sit down and rub some gentle healing into his right thigh. Wrathion's claws _tapped clicked clacked_ on the wood floor in a limping sort of rhythm, though it was drowned out by the cacophony of sound below as the Blacktalons, Tong, and some of the innkeeper's friends he had brought from the Shrine days before helped clean up the mess. Furniture groaned as it was brushed aside, pottery shattered as it was thrown outside to be swept up later, and voices commanding where to put what drifted up to the second floor. 

Again, Anduin found himself wishing he was down there. He'd been a bit put-off when they (they being Left) shooed him upstairs and gave him this silly assignment because of his leg, which ended up hurting him anyway. Wrathion hadn't wanted to help at all, content with watching everyone clean up from his bench, but he kept getting in the way and Left had forcibly suggested he go upstairs, too – at least, she'd said, it was quieter.

Wrathion came back to the table and sat down three more pieces lodged in-between his teeth. He gave Anduin an annoyed look.

“Why am _I_ doing all of the work?” Wrathion said, then promptly laid down on the pile of pieces like they were some sort of cheap hoard of gold. One fell off of the side, and he watched it begin to roll off to the balcony. Anduin jumped up and grabbed it before it could fall over. “Good, you're up. I will take my rest now.”

Anduin rolled his eyes. He flicked the piece back on the board game and it smacked Wrathion on the muzzle, and the Black Prince glared.

“Is resting on the board game really necessary?” Anduin said, as he began circling the room, squinting at the corners and underneath the broken panels of wood, again, for a flash of black or white. “How many do we have left?”

He heard Wrathion counting and shifting apart the coins. “Two.”

Anduin nodded. It would have been easier for Wrathion to do this, since the dragon was smaller, faster, and could crack open the wood easier than he, but Anduin decided against making a comment. He didn't mind doing the work, but Wrathion was acting... strange. Strang _er_. 

Anduin had noticed it when the dragon had woken up. Wrathion had seemed distant and cold, just like he had on the gem. Anduin had managed to make the Prince open up a _little_ bit until it almost felt like their normal bickering and teasing, but after Right's pyre, Wrathion had swept into the Tavern so quickly and had settled into his distance again. He hadn't replied to Anduin with any of his long-lectured comments or even a tease or an insult but instead cold, almost hateful single-word answers. He'd been frigid, as static as if he'd worn a mask over every possible hint of emotion; he did not speak with passion, or roll his eyes, or give a demeaning quip, or even smile. That sense of allure and mystery Wrathion had etched in his personality was gone; this was something... darker.

Anduin was managing to work on him, though. Once they'd been assigned up here together, Wrathion had slowly let his chilly demeanor thaw until he seemed, more or less, the normal brat he was. But Anduin was being cautious. He didn't want Wrathion to wall himself up again. 

Something was clearly wrong, but Anduin wasn't sure what.

And coupled with the fact he had yet to tell Wrathion about Madam Goya... 

“Found them,” Anduin said as he saw the last two pieces, thankfully together, pressed up close to the wall. They were half-way hidden by some of the floor which had reared up from an impact from below. The prince leaned and grabbed them, not wanting to crouch, this time. 

He turned and set the black and white pieces on the board. Wrathion nudged them with the end of his snout then huffed, satisfied.

“We should play,” Anduin suggested. Wrathion hesitated. “Unless you'd like to go downstairs and help.”

Wrathion sighed, stood, and stretched out like a cat before hopping down to the chair opposite Anduin's. Smoke enveloped his small form, and a moment after Wrathion was sitting in his human guise, staring at Anduin with an unreadable expression.

“Alright, Anduin Wrynn. Let's play.” A small smile twitched at one corner of Wrathion's lips, which gave Anduin a bit of hope. Anduin sat. “Please do not huff and puff if you lose.”

“Again,” Anduin said, as he leaned forward and rearranged the pieces, white on his side, black on Wrathion's, “losing and winning isn't the point of this game. I've told you that – what, a dozen times?”

“Just about.”

“And you almost always make _us_ lose because of it,” Anduin added. He finished rearranging the pieces.

“It's a ridiculous game. It's not _my_ fault if we lose!”

Anduin made his first move. “Well, show me, then, if you know so much.”

Wrathion huffed. He swept one of his own pieces forward.

In silence, the two princes played. Wrathion was, as he had been, more reserved than usual. Usually he was prone to annoyed outbursts, or taunts when he had made a good move, but the Black Prince simply sat there, his eyes trained on the board and his fingers tapping against his cast, which Anduin had since redone so it no longer looked like a scarecrow's arm.

“So.” Anduin looked up. Wrathion was staring at him, now, and no longer the game. “When are you ever going to share this important information you came all the way here to tell me?”

Anduin had to suppress a wince. Of course Wrathion hadn't forgotten.

Well, it was better to get it over with, Anduin supposed. He'd planned on leaving after their game was done, anyway – for as much as he'd love to stay and help rebuild, he'd promised his father in the note he'd left behind that he would be back by noon, which was slowly creeping up... and Anduin was more worried about the dug Vale he'd left than the Tavern, which was in good hands.

“You're not going to like it,” Anduin said, as he dropped his hand from the board game. “It's concerning Madam Goya.”

Wrathion tilted his head, his eyes suddenly sharp with interest. “Madam Goya?” He echoed. “And here I believed she'd perished with how she had disappeared. What about her?”

“She more or less cornered me into having dinner with her last night at the Shrine.” Anduin frowned. “Wrathion, I'm not going to try to skirt around this. She wants some of your agents. She needs help retrieving her stolen goods.” Now came the hard part. “But that's not -”

“ _What_?” Wrathion sat up in his seat, offended. “She has an entire network of her own – _goons_! I am running short on numbers as is!”

“I know,” Anduin said quickly. “But that's... not exactly everything.”

Wrathion glared. “Well, don't hesitate on the surprise.”

“Apparently she's been speaking to the Dragonmaw.” One corner of Wrathion's mouth twitched. “People noticed Sabellian. Word got out. Some like the Dragonmaw know you're not the last anymore, and Madam Goya would -” Anduin sighed. “She wants the rest of Sabellian's brood, alive or not... to sell to the Dragonmaw or on the Market.”

Wrathion stared.

The dragon curled his lip; the corners of his nose crinkled with feral, scowling lines, like a tiger's mid-growl.

“That is – who does that crone think she is?” Wrathion exclaimed as he bound to his feet, his good hand curling into a loose fist. Shoulders tight, he began to pace, his footfalls creaking heavy on the wood floor, an aggressive sound that seemed even louder to Anduin than the activity downstairs. “The rest of his brood,” Wrathion sneered to himself. “Ridiculous. Madam _Goya_ will see neither horn nor scale of any!”

Anduin watched. He picked up one of his ivory pieces and rolled it around in his palm, unsure of what else to say but sure that if he said more, Wrathion would grow angrier. Better to let Wrathion to let it settle -

The Black Prince stopped pacing. He blinked, frowned, then turned back to Anduin; his eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.

“Did she truly believe I would comply?”

Ah. Anduin smoothed his thumb down the side of his coin and set it down, where it _clicked_ sharply against the wood table.

“She aimed to blackmail you if you didn't,” Anduin said.

Wrathion went slack with surprise. He blinked once, flabbergasted, before his anger resurfaced, though it was more confused and unsure.

_“Blackmail_ me. With _what_?”

“Madam Goya thought to use some of your champions' animosity against you.”

“'Animosity!'”

“It turns out people don't like being lied to.” Anduin frowned. “Especially about favoring their faction over another, when you were doing the same to the oth -”

Wrathion interrupted with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Are they _still_ hung up over that?”

A large crash burst from below, and both princes winced. Wrathion quickly composed himself with his glare, but Anduin's knee began to ache at the sudden jolt. Of course.

“But what does _that_ have to do with blackmail? Goya is a poor schemer if she aims to use _apparently_ common knowledge against me.”

“Somehow,” Anduin began, bracing himself – since this, he knew, would be the most difficult, “she found out about the Sha corrupting you. Some of her 'goons' saw the Sha energy here.”

Wrathion suddenly grew pale, his skin the color of dark ash. 

He took a long-suffering breath. “The Sha could have infected anyone here. How is she so sure it was _me?”_

“She... may have found out I was there, too,” Anduin explained. Yes, he thought: she knew because he'd accidentally let slip he'd returned to the Tavern. “I guess she believed I would only go back for you.”

Wrathion ground his teeth. He became even paler, but then he growled and turned away, running a hand over his face.

Anduin ached for him. Wrathion had so wanted to keep his Sha possession personal, another secret among all the others he kept, until not even he himself had admitted it had happened – until he'd brought it up in the tent at Townlong, of course, but even then, Anduin severely doubted he ever had wanted to bring it up again. 

Anduin sighed. Even then, he wasn't done delivering the bad news. “From how she put it, Goya would say the Sha corrupted you so terribly you heard Y'shaarj.” 

Wrathion's shoulders went stiff. Anduin hesitated. Both Wrathion and he knew that that was the truth, but Goya thought it was an exaggeration on her part; she didn't know it was real.

“She assumes that will make those champions even angrier,” Anduin finished. He took a deep breath. 

\- _it would only take the slightest push to begin a flame that would no doubt chase Wrathion to wits end -_

_\- it is outstanding how easily people will look for excuses to hurt what they think is an enemy -_

Wrathion stood still, his back to Anduin. Anduin watched him breathe.

The silence grew heavy – so heavy Anduin felt as if the crashing and groaning and shattering downstairs dropped into a static background, replaced by this quiet. 

Finally, Wrathion turned back.

Anduin's heart sank. The stony mask he'd melted from Wrathion's face had returned. In a terrible moment of remembrance, Anduin saw Magni Bronzebeard turned to unmoving diamond – but at least his horrified face had shown emotion, unlike Wrathion's now.

“Does she really think,” Wrathion began, his voice sharp and with an undercurrent of swelling anger, “I care about the fragile feelings of – _disloyal_ champions?”

“I don't think she expects you to care about their feelings,” Anduin explained. He was unnerved, but not altogether surprised, by Wrathion's answer. “Honestly, I think Madam Goya expects them to come after you.”

_She expects them to think you the monster you don't want to be_ , he thought, but kept it to himself. _An easy target like your family was..._

“Oh, please.” Wrathion indignantly tugged at his leather sash, then struck out his shoulders. His cast arm might not look like part of a scarecrow any longer, but he certainly stood as straight-shouldered as one. “I would look to see them _try_ when I am without a blindfold.”

“Right.” Anduin splayed his hand flat on the table. Someone laughed downstairs, though the happy sound did nothing to lift Anduin's nerves. Wrathion had been unhappy with his champions before, but Anduin had never heard him talk like that about them.

“I'm sure you can speak to them and clear their anger, Wrathion,” Anduin said, slipping his hand from the table. “I doubt they'll come by themselves, though.” No other hero, Alliance nor Horde, had come up the mountain that Anduin had seen; not even the grummles which traveled the stairs had appeared from the mist. It seemed the destruction of the Tavern and the disappearance of Wrathion had people stop trying to visit. “Didn't you send a letter to get their attention? You could let them know you're he- ”

“A completely different matter _entirely_. I don't care about them for the time being.” Wrathion was looking at the bannister, but his mind looked elsewhere. “Who I should be speaking with is _Madam Goya_.” His lips curled into a semi-sneer, breaking his stony facade, but which left behind only a dark and cruel sort of anger on his face. “And why did she ask you to deliver this news to me, hm?” 

Anduin shifted in his seat. Why, indeed. “I think she realized she could... take advantage of what we have.”

“Which is?”

“A friendship?” Anduin said, raising a brow but he himself feeling confused. Sometimes, even he didn't know what _they_ were. They felt like enemies, friends, and... _suitors_ _,_ perhaps,all in one very confusing, shifting jumble.

“A friendship,” Wrathion repeated vacantly, as if he'd never really thought about it before.

“Are you going to agree to Madam Goya's demands, then?” Anduin asked as Wrathion grew silent.

Wrathion said nothing. He continued to stare at the bannister, his eyes narrowed, his good hand slipping over the cast elbow of his broken arm in a repetitive, stroking motion. 

“I could reply to her in turn,” Wrathion said. “Go after her as she so openly goes after me.” He dropped his hand to his side, and his face, already angry, grew angrier. “No one _ever_ comes after me, Anduin Wrynn. She is a fool to think she can.” His last sentence was a growl.

Anduin thought quickly. He didn't like the blackmail, either, but he didn't want Wrathion getting into more trouble; he'd already just gotten out of it. “With your agents, I'm sure they can recover the lost items quickly. And – well, what are you going to do with the bodies of your family, anyway, if you _are_ going to kill them?” Of course he was going to kill them, Anduin thought, a cold but knowing disappointment in his chest. Especially with Sabellian gone. “Do you really want them?”

Wrathion flinched. Anduin blinked, surprised. That wasn't the reaction he'd been expecting. Had he said it too harshly?

The Black Prince recovered so quickly Anduin, for a moment, thought he'd imagined it. 

“I do need to replace the scales on my tabard,” Wrathion said, running his hand down his tunic where the black, shiny scales _clinked_ as he ran his claws over them. Some, indeed, were missing. “Oh! And I require new gloves.”

Anduin stared.

Unsure if Wrathion was making a macabre joke, Anduin said: “But for the rest of their bodies?”

Wrathion scowled. “Why are you _pushing_ me towards accepting? You are apparently Madam Goya's best choice for messenger boy.”

“I just don't want you to get into more trouble,” Anduin said, but tried not to frown. He _had_ played right into Madam Goya's plan, hadn't he? But his worry was genuine...

Huffing, Wrathion deepened his glare. “You have no say in whether I get into 'more trouble,' as you so innocently put it,” he snapped. “You are not my keeper, Prince Anduin.”

Anduin was taken aback by the sudden anger in Wrathion's voice. He blinked, once, then glared.

“I'm not trying to be your 'keeper,' Wrathion!” Anduin insisted, beginning to grow frustrated, himself. “I'm trying to give you advice. It'd be foolish to go after Madam Goya. You can settle this -”

“ _Peacefully_. Yes, yes, I know your... _inert_ methods, prince.” Wrathion cocked his head. “And how do you suggest how _blackmail_ can be done peacefully?”

Before Anduin had ample time to reply, Wrathion continued. His voice became more bitter than angry. “Oh, _I_ can answer that! You _cannot_ , just like you cannot use _peace_ for every quaking problem which lurks in this place. Compromises, alliances, acts of benevolence – all things for the weak, Prince Anduin.”

Anduin paused, again surprised by Wrathion's words. It sounded as if Wrathion had ripped the stoniness away, and the sudden rush of this rant was something that had stewed inside, released. It startled the prince, though he was quick to gather himself. “That isn't true. You -”

“Yes, it is. The world is cruel, Anduin Wrynn, and _operates_ on cruelty. Alliances can be broken with even the slightest amount of betrayal, and... _kindness_ is a tool taken advantage of. There is only crushing and taking. Your enemy cannot harm you if its dead, will it? No amount of mercy will ever change the fact.” A sudden flash of emotion flickered along Wrathion's face, but it vanished so quickly Anduin hardly had time to decipher what it was. Regret? Either way, his face took on its angry hardness, and his voice the same bitterness. “Which is why your advocation of peace is a naïve child's dream, _Prince_ Anduin. It nearly cost you your life at the Divine Bell, did it not?” He sneered. “And do you think the beauty of the Vale, the peace of the Golden Lotus, stopped Garrosh from sending his goblins to tear it up? No. Garrosh simply took what he wanted by force. An admirable quality.”

Anduin had not felt this angry in a long, long time. He rubbed his pointer finger and thumb together roughly until the cloth of his gloves began to heat from the friction and stared at Wrathion with a look of utter disbelief and disappointment.

Wrathion could be cruel. He could be violent, revel in tales of conquest and bloodshed; he could speak in great interest and almost admiration of the power of the Thunder King, and lie to the faces of both Horde and Alliance heroes alike with a smile. Anduin had never been blind to any of that, not even in their fleeting, more intimate moments. He'd spoken and laughed and kissed and argued with a prince who rejected his family's terrible legacy as much as he embraced it, whether he realized it or not.

Anduin felt like a fool. After everything that had happened, he thought, maybe, Wrathion would think differently – but why would he? Sabellian had come to kill Wrathion, to wipe the Black Prince out as Wrathion had aimed to do with Sabellian and his brood. There had been no amount of peace in that struggle; there had just been death and hatred, and in the end, Wrathion had come out the victor... so far. Anduin thought Wrathion would look at the events and realize how much easier it could have been settled, without all the pain and sadness – that he would learn from it. But it seemed, much to Anduin's chagrin, Wrathion only had his dark viewpoint of dealing with the world confirmed: power and murder were the tools of a forced “peace,” and nothing more.

Quietly, Anduin tried to compose himself. He swallowed hard, though there was a lump in his throat: not one of sadness, but of anger, one not easily offset. 

“The world might be cruel,” Anduin said, his voice even but his eyes narrowed, belaying his frustration, “but if the right way was... _killing_ and taking things by force to make things right, we all would have died out a long time ago by murdering each other!” Anduin reached to grab his cane, then stood. His eyes did not leave Wrathion's. “But that hasn't happened. It's not how things are! There's hatred and anger and suffering, but that's not what the world _is_. It's inherently good. Its people are. The Alliance is, the Horde is. _You_ are. Your _family_ once was. Wrathion, please.” Replacing the anger was a strong sort of determination. Anduin was desperate to make Wrathion understand, as desperate as he had always been to make Wrathion understand. “Anger doesn't solve problems for whatever greater good you have planned. Anger just breeds more anger. Hatred piled on hatred – _that_ is weakness, Wrathion. Benevolence, peace – you always say those are the weak traits. But you're wrong. I've seen people do far more good than bad.”

Wrathion grew still. A sharpness lurked in his red eyes.

“Going after Goya will only breed more violence – more trouble you don't need,” Anduin continued, more softly this time. “So will killing Sabellian's surviving children.” A great tiredness had settled in his heart. “And then that will bring more anger, and more anger, and more after that. I don't know what happened in Townlong,” he said, and Wrathion began to scowl, “I really don't, other than what you told me. I don't know why you're acting like some sort of – some sort of _gargoyle_ , for Light's sake. But you need to escape this cycle. End it here. Try and learn from what happened. Can't you see it will lead you nowhere but down?”

Anduin thought of Arthas. He had ended up on the Frozen Throne, doomed forever as the Lich King because he had made all the wrong choices for reasons that had once been well-intentioned.

He thought about Garrosh, too – Garrosh, who Anduin knew had a heart that was as devoted to his Horde as much as Anduin and his father's were to the Alliance, but whose methods, too, were ones ruled by murder and power, methods which Wrathion dared call admirable. 

Had Neltharion, too, had good intentions? Did he, like so many other protectors, heroes of this world, choose the wrong choices, the wrong plan, for their own vision of the greater good?

Anduin didn't know. All Anduin knew was that he did not want Wrathion to end up the same way as them.

Wrathion remained frozen. Anduin couldn't read his expression – or perhaps he could, though there were so many curled into his face that it was like a new expression altogether. Anger seemed to be the dominant one. Then there was confusion, disbelief, offense...

“It is nearly noon, Prince Anduin,” Wrathion said after a long, terse silence. His voice was rigidly formal, spoken through gritted teeth. “Did you not tell me you were scheduled to return to the Shrine by now?”

It must have been an hour until noon. Both he and Wrathion knew it.

Instead of arguing the point, Anduin only shook his head. He'd said what he wanted to say; he didn't expect Wrathion to suddenly confess he'd been wrong all along, obviously. He didn't want Wrathion to. He just wanted to make the dragon... think. 

Because Anduin, as he had said, knew Wrathion was good. He was just afraid he was making the wrong choices.

“You're right,” Anduin replied. Briefly, he entertained the thought of leaning forward and trying to clasp Wrathion's wrist with his hand in a reassuring gesture, but he discarded the idea. It would do more ill than good. He sighed, then forced a smile, a movement practiced throughout his life. “I suppose we'll have to finish our game later.”

Wrathion nodded curtly. 

The two princes stared at one another, and then Anduin bowed as if to an equal. When he straightened, Wrathion had not yet moved. Anduin realized he wasn't going to.

“Good luck, Wrathion,” Anduin sighed, more disappointed, now, then frustrated. “You know where I'll be.”

Wrathion forced a false smile. “And you know where I will be, Prince,” he replied.

As Anduin made his way out, he heard a snarl and a crash as Wrathion threw what could only be the dice-cup against the wall. 

The flight back to the Shrine was not Anduin's happiest one.

\---

Sabellian wanted to go back to sleep.

At least, an unfeeling sleep was far better than the pain he felt upon waking. He bristled in agony. Desperately he tried to sink back into the darkness, to grow numb again, but the pain lingered, hovering over every inch of him like a second skin. 

Gritting his teeth, Sabellian gave up the idea of sleep and instead tried to push away the ache, an ache like pins and needles, taut muscles, and burning skin all wrapped tightly together into some trifecta of pain. Ignoring it quickly became impossible: the more he grew frustrated and more confused, the more he woke, which only made the pain worse.

Sabellian stopped altogether. He was, he realized, laying on something. He did not feel what. Was he still in the Sik'vess cave? 

Sabellian forced his eyes open. Everything was blurry, as if he looked through a curved, fogged glass. 

This was not Sik'vess. Even with the blur, Sabellian realized that much. Replacing the rooted ceiling of the kypari tree was tiled, blue-grey rock, and there was a steady glowing light coming from his side. 

He went to investigate further and tried to sit up, but his body ached and he found he could not even do that little. Frustrated, Sabellian simply turned his head to survey the rest of his surroundings.

Indeed it was a room, small but spacious. Its walls were made of the same cold rock as the ceiling, and tapestries of bamboo, decorated with animals, covered the length of one of them. The light was seeping in through the cracks of a steel-blue curtain to his left which shielded a frosty window.

It looked, for the most part, to be a cold place, simple but sturdily built. Sabellian was soothed, at least, by the warmth of the glowing lanterns that were scattered along the length of the place. They were set on the ground, on the tiny desk in the corner, on a pile of moth-eaten books, like they'd been hurriedly placed and scattered; their colored glass radiated shadows of blue and red along the rock.

And it was _quiet_. Sabellian only heard the sound of his own breathing: a ragged, pathetic noise. 

He had no recollection of coming to this place. What he remembered the most was dying, really... falling into unconsciousness, the blessed silence and numbness of the void. 

Sabellian frowned and looked back up at the ceiling. He remembered the mantid paragons, and Wrathion stabbing him. He remembered bleeding out. Perhaps he was dead, he thought, and in some new dream.

Warily, he glanced down at himself to see if the wound which had surely killed him remained. Though he had to crane his head – a task far more difficult than anticipated, the weight of his own skull as heavy as a boulder – he saw instead he was laying on a bed of thick blue covers, and he was clearly not wearing his robe: his bare arms were placed to his sides, above the blankets, and his left hand and wrist were cast in thick gauze, the one Alexstrasza had sprained. From the corner of his eye, gauze, too, covered his left shoulder where the harpoon had skewered him through.

He didn't try to lift his wounded arm. If he couldn't lift his own _head_ , he wasn't going to be able to lift his arm. Better to save himself his own private humiliation from trying at all.

Seeing the gauze made him wonder if he'd been patched up elsewhere. He hurt and ached, yes, but he was coming to realize that the pain that had gripped him in Sik'vess was... altogether, lesser. 

Who had patched him up? Sabellian abandoned the earlier idea of leaving moving at a minimum and tried to move his healthier arm. He bared his teeth at the strain, but managed to slip his hand up to the front of the covers, which rested below his collarbone, and pull them down just enough to see his chest. 

He _had_ been worked on elsewhere. The gauze from his shoulder wrapped around his chest to tie it fast, and another wrap of bandages – these, heavier than any – rounded around his gut. Slowly, he brought his hand down and touched where his stab wound lurked beneath the wrappings. He could not feel his touch through it, but the bandages were smooth and hard underneath his fingertips.

This had to be a dream, or at least some sort of hallucination. He moved his hand away and slumped back into the bed, wincing as pain tensed his shoulders. What else could it be? He searched for some memory, some recollection of coming to this place...

A soft sound caught his attention, one he had not noticed before. Sabellian glanced to his right. Curled up on the floor on a hurriedly made cot of blankets like the ones on his bed lay a sleeping drake whose lithe form only just fit in the side of the room. 

At once the pain subsided, forgotten. He tried to speak but all that came from his throat was a dull croak. Frustrated, he swallowed hard and tried again.

“Nasandria,” he managed to finally say, his voice as ragged and hollow as his breathing. His daughter twitched, and a rush of relief swept through him. It gave him the strength to move his arm to the side of the bed and reach to touch the point of one of her horns. 

She was not cold, so she was not sick – but he remembered that he had known that. How had he known that? A flicker of some forgotten memory twitched at the back of his head, but he had little time to snatch onto it. The drake shifted and raised her head.

Nasandria made a startled sound and jumped to her feet, her fins rising across her head and neck. Her tail smacked down a lantern in her suddenness, and it clanged sharply on the stone.

“You're awake!” She exclaimed, then lurched forward to bury the end of her muzzle near his neck before pulling away. Sabellian pat the side of her face before his hand fell, as he was too weak, still, to keep it up for that long.

“As are -” Sabellian swallowed. It was difficult to talk. Every word made his throat seize and itch, as if he was swallowing rocks. “- As are you.” He tried to crane his head to look her over, to search for any wounds of her own, but found none... except her missing foreleg. Sabellian lingered on the cauterized joint before seeking his daughter's face again. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine.” Nasandria sat on her haunches and laid her head down on the side of his bed. She fixed him with a curious look, and Sabellian could not help but notice the tinge of wariness in the crease of her eyes. “Are you feeling okay, yourself?”

“Never better,” he mumbled. “Where are we?”

“A place called the Temple of the White Tiger.” Nasandria moved her snout and nudged it underneath his hand, so his palm was resting on the end of her muzzle. “In the Kun-lai mountains.”

Sabellian went silent as he digested the information. Again they were in Kun-lai, in the snow and the cold; no wonder the room looked frigid even in its bare decoration and rough rock. 

He looked around the room again, frowning, and tried not to let the pain, which was slowly beginning to creep up again, show on his face. 

“Father,” Nasandria began, and Sabellian glanced over at her, “do you remember anything?”

“No.” Sabellian took a deep breath and swallowed his pain. “ _Where_ is my robe? My pauldrons? My staff?”

“Oh. I'm not sure. I wasn't allowed in when they were healing you.”

“ _They?_ ”

Nasandria lifted her head and Sabellian's hand fell back to rest on the warmed blankets. 

“The monks.” She hesitated. “You really don't remember anything?”

By the sound of her voice, Sabellian wasn't sure he wanted to. She sounded unsure and again, that tint of wariness was there in her voice, hastily hidden. 

He did not answer immediately. Instead Sabellian looked away to stare up at the ceiling, and in silence he searched for a recollection of coming here, of how he had been healed... though his physical weakness, his exhaustion, was not helping him think. 

He was so _tired_. Now that he knew Nasandria was safe, and the relief had settled into the normal, protective normalcy over her, he just wanted to go back to sleep. 

“I recall your voice,” Sabellian finally said. The memory came to him fleetingly, like the tail of a fish slipping to hide beneath a cove. But he caught onto it before it swept away, and remembered her static voice through the pain of death. She had said she had been healed; that was how he had known earlier, then.

“Is that all?”

“Don't rush me,” Sabellian snapped. “I am trying.”

Nasandria went quiet.

The silence of the room, at least, allowed him to concentrate. It felt as if there was a sealed layer in the back of his head – something willingly forgotten. Sabellian focused and began to peel the layers away, a task easier now that he had remembered the automaton, which had woken him from his slow descent into death.

Memories began to fuzz in his mind's eye, sludge-like and groggy. Sabellian inwardly scowled. Something was holding him back from remembering, and he knew it was fear. He forced the unbidden emotion away, annoyed at his further weakness.

Quite suddenly the images sharpened, and the memories resurfaced, vivid and laced with a burning hatred and anger as potent as a poison. He saw himself climbing from Sik'vess, killing the mantid, then flying over Townlong, the Wall and into Kun-lai. He remembered attacking the Temple, fighting Kalecgos, and being tossed around by the Tiger. He remembered Nasandria hovering over him, and then being lifted – but the memories ended there. 

He remembered the pain, however, and how the hatred had dulled it. He remembered wanting to rip Kalecgos's head off, wanting to kill every living thing at the Temple save for Nasandria. He remembered a scratch at the back of his head, the returned background whisper that had surfaced like a gentle vibration – the very same beginnings of corruption that had come to him like a secret on the Townlong plains, the hum he'd managed to suffocate before the mantid had found them.

More than that, he remembered a voice, quiet, yes, but with a tone of suggestive command that had only fueled his viciousness. Sabellian began to feel ill.

“Father?”

Sabellian grimaced. He closed his eyes and put his hand on his face, then squeezed the bridge of his nose.

“I'm alright,” he lied. No. He was not alright. His stomach felt as if it was beginning to constrict, and the lingering pain from his stab worsened with the unwanted, troubled movement.

Sabellian pushed past the pain as he searched for the voice in his head, but found his mind blessedly quiet save for a sort of buzzing anxiousness at his recollection. The knots in his stomach loosened, but only just so; his wound pulsed like a second heartbeat.

Slowly, he set his hand back down.

“I did not hurt you, did I?”

“No, I'm okay,” Nasandria insisted.

“I hurt others.”

Nasandria ground her teeth nervously.

“Did I kill anyone?”

Nasandria stared at him and said nothing.

Sabellian looked away. No. Impossible. He could not have lost control of himself so easily, so effortlessly...

He did not allow himself to panic. _Could_ not. 

Sabellian was dully aware his breathing had begun to quicken, though his heart felt sluggish. He closed his eyes, desperate for sleep, now. This reality _was_ a nightmare.

Desperate for some good news, for _any_ god news, Sabellian searched for the scratch, the voice, in his head again – but it was gone. He felt no presence lingering inside his mind to pull him back down into rabidness. 

He had found his daughter through... unfortunate circumstances, but he had found her, and that was what mattered. With the presence, the corruption, gone, Sabellian had little to worry about.

At least, that's what he told himself. _Tried_ tell himself.

_I have lost control of myself, and killed others whose faces I cannot remember._

His worst fear, come to life.

For a brief moment he was again in Townlong, crunching down on the mantid too slow to dodge, and Kil'ruk was yelling _leave him_!

After the entire fuss, the paragon had simply... given him up.

Sabellian had a lingering feeling it was not because Kil'ruk feared dying from his flames. Thousands of mantid had back -lit Sik'vess, a moving curtain – more than enough to take down a dragon, even one fueled by hate.

And still, Kil'ruk had let him go.

And then Sabellian had killed people. How many? Who? Where? Here? 

“You breathed the smoke that Talsian did,” Nasandria murmured, distracting Sabellian from his ill thoughts. “Did you... hear...?”

“No.” 

It seemed that was all Nasandria had wanted to ask. When Sabellian opened his eyes, she looked notably more relaxed. Sabellian wished he did not have to lie to her, and that he felt the same way. In their quiet, he wrapped up the memories he'd just peeled away and shoved them back desperately, afraid of them, afraid of their implications, though he kept his face blank. He could not face them. Not now, while he felt this weak.

“They said it was something called the 'Sha' that corrupted you, anyway,” Nasandria shared. “Xuen ripped it out of you.”

“So I recall.” Sabellian coughed and winced, pain crippling his body. Briefly he saw pinpricks of light dance before his eyes, but they faded after he took a deep, growling breath. 

Even if he wasn't possessed anymore, thinking about how the large tiger had baited and swatted at him like a plaything still made him angry.

“Well, anyway,” Nasandria said quickly, “I'm glad it's done with, and you're here. What happened, though?” She shifted her weight, her folded wings rustling. “They said they have no idea how you didn't die. You lost so much blood.”

Though exhaustion and the ever-present ache of his wounds made it difficult to speak, Sabellian explained; he had to pause many times to take a breather or clear his throat, but it did ill to lift his voice from its dull, tired croak. Nasandria stayed quiet but attentive, curling a lip and her lifting her fins as he told her of Alexstrasza, the Alliance and their harpoons, the mantid – and then finally Wrathion's betrayal, which had her snarling.

“Why did you agree to help him in the first place?” Nasandria exclaimed. 

“I had little choice,” Sabellian replied, annoyed but too weak to growl; the story had made his voice hoarser, and his lungs prickled as if he had just flown for hours. Explaining how he had wanted to see the effects of Xaril's potion on the... unfortunate Wrathion so he might use it against the mantid had sent him into a coughing fit, which had _not_ been kind to any of his wounds or voice as his body had jerked. “Neither of us knew how to get out of the situation alone. I thought, perhaps, a combined effort would work, and I took my chance and suffered for it.”

Nasandria paused as she mulled it over. The wind howled outside.

“Well. Okay,” she conceded. 

Sabellian nodded. Gods, it was difficult even to do that. He was so tired – he did not recall a time when he had hurt like this, save for perhaps with Gruul - but at least they were no longer talking about the Sha or the subject of _voices_ again. Sabellian knew he would have to deal with it later, but forgetting it, shoving it in the very recesses of his mind under lock and key, made him relax. It made him stop the wells of panic that swayed in and out of his mind's eye, those which made his chest constrict. 

His eyes drifted to Nasandria's missing foreleg. 

“I am sorry for sending you to the Badlands,” Sabellian said suddenly. Nasandria startled. “I should have not sent you alone.”

Nasandria bent her head. “I was fine,” she insisted. “I brought the artifact back, at least.”

“At least,” Sabellian repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You made the trip across the sea twice, once sick and with loss of limb, and found the object. I do not see an 'at least.' You did well, Nasandria. I am proud of you.”

Nasandria glowed with the praise. 

“Now,” Sabellian sighed, turning away, shedding the sentimental air, “I am tired. Tell those _monks_ , if they return, to attempt to ease the pain while I sleep. They did a terrible job with such a simple task.”

“Yes, Father.” Nasandria hesitated. “Though they have been coming in every day -”

“'Every day?' How long have I been _sleeping?”_

“Four days.”

Sabellian scowled. Four days! An incredible amount of lost time. He flexed his fingers.

And how much more lost time would he gain, laying here in bed? If four days had passed and he felt this ache, he dreaded to think of how many days would go by when until it finally left him.

At least, Sabellian told himself, the artifact Nasandria had found was here. He would like to take a look, when he had the energy – though a very careful look, if activating it had taken Nasandria's limb off, as she'd described over the automaton. 

Still – this weakness would had to be dealt with quickly. Sabellian might have been fueled by the Sha, but the birth of his hatred stemmed from the one who had put him here, and rightfully so. He planned to keep his promises of how violently he would kill the Black Prince, voice or no voice goading him on, as it had four days prior.

At least Wrathion would think him dead, giving Sabellian time to rest and think. That was good, at least.

A faint coat of hatred stirring in his head, Sabellian went back to sleep.

\-----

After five days upon the sea, the warmth of grass beneath Samia's feet and the smell of wet soil was a welcome change from the stinging brine which had burned against her eyes and battered her scales.

As she tucked in her salt-caked wings to her body, Samia took in their surroundings. The group of dragons had landed on the first outcrop of land that had peered out from the horizon, desperate for rest and for their final arrival.

It was wild and green and, thankfully, deserted of mortal life. Thin but tall waxy trees grew in clumps below them, surrounding a shallow swamp of clear water and buildings whose metal walls resembled overlapping scales like her own. She paid them no heed; they were damaged, burned and dented. They were lucky to have landed above an abandoned outpost, though the stillness of the place was a presence all its own. 

The exhausted group around her took the quiet and broke it. The crackle of the nether-drakes' popped and hissed, and as they caught their breath they heaved and gasped. Samia glanced at them, her glare mild but pointed. Though she too was tired, she stood erect, knees locked, and was glad to see Pyria and Vaxian in the same stance as she.

She'd pushed them hard in the last stretch, shouting above the harsh winds close to the coast and the roar of the churning sea below, but Samia had known they had been nearly there. At least they were here; another day on the sea would have been disastrous. Food was hard to catch when it could swim away and one did not like the water.

“Oh, it's beautiful,” Pyria gushed. She came up to Samia's side and looked out at the swamp. White salt covered her large black horns like a sheen of ice. “Where are we?”

“Hopefully Pandaria,” Samia muttered. Turning, she sought out Rexxar in the group, and found him dismounting his exhausted wyvern. “Tell me this is Pandaria.”

“It seems to be,” the beast-master replied, wiping away crusted tears from Leokk's eyes. His white hawk spirit appeared circling above him. 

Rexxar turned and looked out at the swamp and silently took in the surroundings. “It is nowhere I have ever been.”

That was good enough for Samia. She pivoted to face the group behind her, who had since stopped their heaving breaths and had composed themselves into a regular sort of tired, bleary-eyed exhaustion. 

“We'll rest, here,” Samia announced. Sighs of relief answered. “This place looks abandoned, but we need to be careful. I think a large group of glowing dragons is going to catch attention.”

So would three black dragons, she thought.

“Just shift into your human forms,” she added. “Catch your breath, sleep.”

The group complied, nether-drake and black dragon alike. The shining smoke of numerous transformations lit the cliff in a pearly glow. 

Upon shifting, Samia had to hold back a pained scowl. Her entire body hurt: her back ached, her shoulders felt stiff upon her spine, and her neck was the worst of all. It felt as if a great claw clutched at the base of her skull, squeezing with an unyielding pressure.

“Faring well, Samia?”

“I'm fine, Vaxian. Thanks.” Samia rubbed idly at her neck, kneading her knuckles into the muscle and, finding the task as useless as trying to massage a rock, dropped her hand. “Can you check the perimeter?”

Vaxian nodded. Out of them all, he looked the less tired, though his short hair and even the small hairs of his slim goatee was ruffled and out of place.

Though he was easily twice as tall and twice as large as she, his footfalls sounded surprisingly light as he moved away, his black armor shimmering with the fading smoke.

Samia watched him go until he disappeared beyond the thick foliage. Behind her, quiet, tired conversation began to murmur like a second wind, wordless to her. 

They set up camp quickly. The wood for the small fire was plucked from low-hanging branches, but they were slow to take the flame, and when they burned the smoke was black and thick. One of the nether-drakes – Feraku, Samia recalled – dulled it into a shimmering, cloudy silver, as translucent as a tear.

Many of the group huddled around the little source of warmth, though even at night the jungle was rather warm. After spending a week on the cold sea, Samia didn't blame them. She watched the dragons for a while and Rexxar too, who had sent Misha on her own to hunt so he could tend to wrestling the salt and grime from Leokk's saddle and mane. 

She herself was still overlooking the swamp. 

It felt strange to be here – disconnected. Samia looked out over the lush landscape and tried to peer further off, but the thin, rod-like trees grew too thick and the large flowers, mushrooms, and green bush was like a living wall, pocked by shines of light that sluiced through the canopy above. Samia supposed they'd find out what was beyond soon enough, a thought which almost felt fake to her. It was as if some part of her was expecting something terrible to crop up, for this place to be a figment of her dreams – as if she would wake and find herself again on a small island, the salt stinging her lungs. 

It was the smell of the wet earth, the flowers, the damp swamp, and the faint rain that told her this was real – as well as the gentle hum beneath the soles of her boots, the sheer presence of the earth below her. She latched onto it like a security line; it anchored her, pulling her strung nerves still.

Yes – they were really here, after all that had gone wrong. And now she could finally get things done.

“Samia, come over here and sit with me. You can't stand there all day.”

“I'm sure I could, if I wanted to,” Samia teased as she looked away from the swamp and to the group. Pyria was sitting, leaning back against one of the trees with the larger trunks.

“Maybe,” Pyria said, smiling. She made a beckoning flick with her hand. Samia complied, feeling more relaxed than she had in weeks.

“Where'd Vaxian go?” Her younger sister asked as Samia sat, trying to get comfortable with her stiff joints.

“To check out the area. Make sure it's safe.”

“Oh.” Pyria glanced around, trying to search for her brother. “Well, I don't see him. But I can't wait to explore this place. Look at it!” She spread out her arms and nearly smacked Samia in the face; Samia ducked. Pyria didn't notice. “It's beautiful! So much nicer than Blade's Edge.”

“I think Blade's Edge is more like us more than this... green place is.”

Pyria wrinkled her nose and sat her hands back down in her lap. “You mean 'barren and unlively'? No, wait. 'Hot and dangerous.' I think that description's better.”

Samia smiled. “Yes.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. Samia watched the nether-drakes. Some were already asleep, curled up in their human forms. Others were talking, but most were looking around with the same sort of wonder Pyria had. Samia didn't blame them. The nether-drakes were denizens of Outland and Outland only; they had no memories of this alien place.

The grass shifted behind her. Samia leaped up and turned, only to find a surprised Vaxian putting up his arms in a defensive surrender. 

“Oh. Sorry,” Samia said. “Everything good?”

“Yes. No mortals to see or to scent. The outpost is wholly abandoned.”

“Great. Thanks, Vaxian. Go rest, okay?”

Vaxian nodded, armor clinking. 

A half hour later, Misha returned with a deer and then two, and the dragons ate.

They had gathered in a more closely knit group, then, and having settled and eaten, it was time to talk.

“What's our next move?” Asked Feraku. 

Samia swallowed her last piece of venison and attempted to keep the lingering, rich taste in her mouth. It was certainly better than the ghost-taste of fish on her tongue, a food she'd never particularly enjoyed and had only come to hate more when it was the only thing to _eat_ on the ocean.

“Rest, first. Get a good sleep.” Samia drummed her fingers on her knee and ignored the looks of relief on some of their faces. “Then we'll just start from the beginning. Rexxar will track,” she nodded her head to the beast-master, who sat opposite from her across the fire, “but so will we. I am... good with mortals. Getting information from them should be easy.”

“What kind of information would mortals know?” The nether-drake to speak was a pearly grey, shiny like the inside of an oyster shell. Samia struggled to remember her name. Okelaka? 

“A lot. You'd be surprised with how quickly information can spread between them, and how much.” 

“I'm glad we're here, but...” Pyria played with the thick gold bracelet hanging on her wrist, engraved with red markings that faintly resembled blood spatter. “I was just thinking... I mean, I know there's a _whole_ lot of us, and that's great, but... it's going to be a bit noticeable, right? You just said it before we settled down.”

Samia frowned. “Right.” 

She glanced out at the group. Even in their human forms, nether-drakes were extremely noticeable; the nether that had mutated their black dragon heritage beyond recognition was like a flare. Sneaking around with them, searching and questioning for the whereabouts for her Father, her siblings, and this prince would not be easy. Samia, Vaxian, and Pyria could blend just fine in their human forms – Samia had done it for a long time in the Cenarion Expedition – but not so the others.

“Maybe we could split up,” Pyria suggested.

Some of the group shifted uneasily.

“We'd be better united,” one of the nether-drakes said: Ozaku, the spell-caster that had sparred with Samia at Blade's Edge.

“We will lose time,” Rexxar argued.

“There's power in numbers.”

“We do not need power. We need _time_.” The beast-master's voice was gruff, and surprisingly impatient. “The rogue in the mountains said Sabellian had little _time_ left.”

Soon an argument, quiet but forceful, sprang between the group. Samia chewed on her bottom lip and stared at the fire, considering.

She saw both sides of the argument. While they were here for her father and her siblings, they were here to kill the Black Prince, too, to end his senseless power slaughter. She could not simply protect Sabellian; her remaining brothers and sisters were hers to guard, as well. Splitting up would quicken the search for her missing family members, but as Ozaku had said, it would weaken them. Samia loathed to think of what would happen if a single group stumbled upon the Prince, who had somehow managed to harm her father in some way Samia did not know.

Samia cast her eyes over to her two siblings: Vaxian was standing, knees locked, and Pyria was arguing along with Rexxar the benefits of splitting up. 

A heaviness settled on Samia's shoulders. To even think of splitting up from her siblings was difficult. After all that had happened, beginning from when Gruul had descended upon them a second time, when she had lost her closest brothers and sisters, until now, her family separated and flung across the world like scattered leaves on the wind, Samia wanted nothing more to stay close to them. She had already lost too many, and too much.

As the argument worsened, Samia made up her mind.

“Okay. Okay – let's – _okay_ – shut up! Honestly!” 

The group calmed at her snapping voice. Samia suffocated her temper.

“Rexxar. I'm sure you were going to start ahead of us, anyway,” Samia began, glancing at the half-orc. “No use having a bunch of scales tromping after you in the bush.”

Rexxar nodded. Misha, who had been licking clean the skull of one of the deer, came lumbering over and plopped herself down to his side with an audible _puff_ as her fur hit the ground.

“Yes. What of it?”

Clasping her hands in her lap, Samia thought. She'd have to word this the right way; she didn't want more arguments popping up because of it.

“I'm sure your hawk can send messages?” Samia continued. Spirit was perching in one of the taller trees, a harsh smudge of white amongst the green. It swiveled its head to look at her darkly.

Rexxar grunted an affirmation.

“Okay.” Samia looked at each of the group in turn, finding each of their eyes. “I think what would be best is if we did split up. We'll cover more ground and be incredibly less conspicuous.” Some of the nether-drakes began to look guilty, as if realizing their fault was in their human forms. “Rexxar will go first. I'll divide us into groups; we'll all set out in a different direction.” She hesitated, but forced her way through. “We black dragons have more experience with... toying with mortals.” It was a bitter statement, one that defined the lingering, terrible legacy of her race, but even with their lack of corruption it was true. Manipulating mortals came easy. “So there'll be a black dragon in every group.”

Vaxian and Pyria stared at her more sharply. Pyria looked surprised, but did not argue.

“Rexxar's hawk will belay messages back and forth. I don't know how big this continent is, but with three groups – four, if we count Rexxar – we'll find this prince and our family, too.”

“Do you think there is a possibility they are separated?” Vaxian readjusted his claw-shaped buckle.

“Maybe.” Samia hadn't considered that scenario. She leaned leaned her head on her hand and mulled it over. “But – we'll get there when we get there. At the very least, let's make this a promise: _no one_ , no single group, will be allowed to attack the Black Prince on their lonesome. I agree splitting up will weaken us, and if this child did something to my Father, then it would be stupid to go in with lesser numbers.”

The whole group nodded, and she felt the tension of the argument fall away as her suggestion was accepted. Finally.

“Now... alright. You nether-drakes are awful with your human forms. Terrible. You can't wear your hoods up all of the time, either.”

A mix of offense, guilt, and confusion flickered over the nether-drakes' faces.

“We can't do much about it,” Feraku said, shrugging. 

Samia paused. She bit down hard on one side of her bottom lip and thought for a moment.

“Do you need to be humans?”

“What?”

“Do you need to be humans?” Samia repeated more slowly, her temper beginning to turn again. 

The nether-drakes looked at each other. 

“I suppose the thought has never crossed our minds,” Okelaka murmured. “Human came naturally.”

Because you were laid as black dragons, Samia thought, but did not say.

“With your skin and hair – obviously you all know the draenei, right? Their skin looks like yours. It might be difficult because they're not from Azeroth but... well, neither are you all, really. They're from Outland – Draenor. Couldn't you try to shift into that? It'd be far less suspicious if you lot were a group of draenei, and not... jelly-skinned, blue humans.”

The nether-drakes stared at her, then at each other. Some began to talk immediately, while others remained quiet, thoughtful. Samia watched them, ready to tell them to shut up if they got too loud but they spoke at a respectful murmur... even then, Samia heard both excitement and unsureness in their voices.

“We could try it,” said Feraku, talking over his kin. “Karynaku – my broodmother – has a draenei form. My father always preferred his half-elf one, I suppose... but it can be done, at least.”

Samia grinned. Excellent. “Why didn't you ever think of this before?”

“We have, in the past,” Okelaka said. “But trying to warp our forms would be energy wasted on other things we could be doing – and we don't spend much time in these mortal forms, anyway, so what would have been the point?”

Samia tried to wrap her head around a life without much use for a mortal form. Even when she wasn't slipping into mortal communities, she was fond of this human guise she sat in now.

She shrugged the thought away. “Okay. Try and work on that before we set out in a couple of hours.” Samia rubbed at her aching neck, then sighed heavily. A sudden exhaustion settled over her. “I'll figure out the groups later. After we sleep. Which you all should be doing now.”

They got the message, eager to slink away and rest. The group began to split up and drift away to farther parts of the cliff until many of the trees were simple lean-ons for sleeping drakes.

Rexxar stood. “I will go now.”

“Now?” Samia asked, incredulous. “Don't you need to sleep?” 

“I will rest when I need to.” 

Misha got to her feet at the same moment Samia did. Rexxar made a low noise in his throat, and Leokk came trotting from the underbrush, looking decidedly cleaner of salt and sea-grime.

Samia looked at the array of animals, then locked eyes with the half-orc. This was happening more quickly than she had surmised, but she was glad for it.

“Good luck,” she said finally. Her chest was tight with a strange emotion, one that she could not quite place. It was not sadness, not eagerness, but perhaps a sort of... pleased determination that sent her bones to steel, her head to lift. 

Rexxar nodded, his axes swaying in cadence with the motion at his hips. He raised his fist to his chest in a salute.

“I will do what I can, Samia,” Rexxar promised, his voice as deep as rumbling as the growls of his bear. 

Samia watched him go.


	25. Chapter 25

 

“My Prince, you're nodding off.”

Wrathion shot up in his chair and blinked away the lingering blurriness in his eyes until the Tavern in the Mists came into focus, gloomy in the fogged afternoon. The lanterns, which had been replaced just yesterday, did nothing to nudge through the dimness. The fog was thick today and the inn empty and quiet, creaking in the Kun-lai southern wind as it adjusted to its replaced wood paneling that had patched up the holes and burns. It was still being worked on – such clean-up and repair could not be finished quickly – but it was beginning to look whole again.

“That was the third time you have done that.”

“ _Yes_ , Left, I can _count_ ,” Wrathion snapped as he rubbed at his eyes. The third time he had fallen asleep at his bench! How embarrassing as it was inevitable. With his nightmares, which had assaulted him each time he closed his eyes since Sik'vess, he had not been able to grasp onto much rest.

He sighed and dropped his hand. Most of the dreams were blurry and formless, an impression of something he'd forgotten. Some part of him knew it was from the sonar the paragons had given him and such a fact did nothing to help him. Other dreams were his normal nightmares. The recurring dream – well, perhaps memory – of being pulled apart and fused together had returned every night and, sometimes, more than once a day. The Burning Legion again and again destroyed Azeroth in others. 

Nightmares, Wrathion could handle. He had had them the first night he had hatched from his egg at Ravenholdt Manor. He knew how to deal with such a thing.

But this sort of attack? This sort of onslaught, night after night? Falling asleep at his bench could not be helped!

Certainly, Wrathion had tried everything in the week after Right's funeral, when the nightmares had begun and there had been no stop to them. More than once he'd snapped at Tong to prepare tea that would make him dreamless or sleepy; such a thing worked in the past. It had done nothing, now, and neither did soothing meals, a trip up to Mason's Folly, a fly around the Veiled Stair, or reading his favorite books, which now lay in an undignified heap in his room after he'd sped through them all, praying their words would lead him to sleep.

Wrathion had taken his frustration and exhaustion out on the innkeeper. Left and his Blacktalons, too, had been yelled at more than once. He couldn't help himself. The angry words came out before he had time to evaluate them as he normally did.

Like the angry words he had given Anduin Wrynn. Wrathion exhaled roughly at the memory. Such a thing could not have been helped. To think Madam Goya had blackmailed him, the Black Prince, was incredulous as it was stupid. And Anduin! The Prince of Stormwind had launched into an argument Wrathion had no will or want to listen to. What did Anduin Wrynn know that he did not? Only a foolish view of the world, operated on peace and defense. Where had peace gotten him? Crushed under a ton of rock. And where had Wrathion gotten when _he_ had hesitated on killing Sabellian, there on the Townlong plains? Dragged into a damned kypari tree to be gagged on drugs and alchemy, even after Sabellian had said he would help when they had made their pact in the cave!

Wrathion sat back in his bench. It squeaked beneath him. No – he didn't want to linger over the argument anymore. He'd spent enough time fuming over it after Anduin had left. Left had given him a strange look when he'd finally stomped down from the stairs. She'd heard the argument and saw his frustration but had said nothing. 

No matter. Anduin was gone. Good, some part of him thought. He could do without Anduin Wrynn. The blond had an incessant ability to open him up before Wrathion could understand what was happening. 

Though another part of him found himself missing the prince's company. He'd gotten used to being lonely as the... “last” of his kind, but Anduin had become a companion and a dear one, despite how frustrating the prince could be at times, while at other times... Wrathion grew bitter and shooed such memories away.

Either way, Wrathion felt the ache of loneliness. Especially since he had begun alienating Left with his snappiness.

But Wrathion knew he would crush such loneliness soon enough. He had grown used to it before and would grow used to it again. It was only annoying as it lingered.

“Have my letters been delivered?” Wrathion said, his voice halfway distorted by a yawn that took the unfortunate moment to bubble in his throat. He swallowed it.

“Yes, my Prince. This morning.”

“Good.” Wrathion stood and stretched. Sitting at the bench, he realized, would make him prone to sleep. He certainly couldn't nod off while standing. His letters, at least, would help put a dent in his singularity. Wrathion supposed he should have sent them earlier, but with the Tavern's continual reconstruction – the chorus of nails knocked into wood, the sawing of planks, the loud talk of the workers – and his own lingering weakness, he'd deemed it... unworthy for showcasing to his champions, yet. So he'd waited to send their letters until last night. No one had seemed to realize his arrival back at the Tavern, and at least with the summons he'd be able to see them face to face, again, and explain what had happened.

Somewhat.

Oh, it would be easy, Wrathion had figured. He had not yet settled on the details, but he'd thought to pin the blame on the Red Dragonflight on who had harmed him and the like. And if some of the champions asked about Sabellian... that would be tackled if the question came up, though he'd openly ordered every Blacktalon to rebuke and report anyone they came across who talked about the “new” black dragons. There was no denying that Sabellian had been seen by the Alliance, or by the farmers near the Wall, or the Shado-pan. Even then, through a bit of bullying, Wrathion hoped his rogues would sway mortals from thinking about continuing the story of the black lizard.

And he'd have to deal with explaining about his promises to the Horde while he lied to the Alliance, and vice versa, which they were so worked up about.

What a headache.

At least such activity was welcomed. It was normalcy. Wrathion wanted nothing more than to return to sitting at this Tavern with the world at his fingertips and the Alliance and the Horde at his beck and call. No dragons. No annoying fathers. No annoying princes. No annoying bugs. Just his personal chess game. 

Plus... such champions could help mop up his own personal disaster. Those he trusted the most but had the least need here in Pandaria he would pull aside and explain the situation at Blade's Edge. He had the mind to send the rogues he'd entrusted to kill his kin during the Cataclysm. They would do well. Sabellian's surviving children, no matter how many there were, would be no match for these battle-hardened assassins. At least _that_ lifted his mood.

Wrathion snatched the _Saurok and the Jinyu_ novel to the side of his bench. This one was one of his favorites, though it was only a brief Pandaren tale. For a brief second he had the misfortune to remember Sabellian turning its pages right before the elder dragon had thrown him out of the doorway, but he shooed the unwanted memory away.

With a glance over his shoulder, he addressed Left. “I am going upstairs. Tell me -”

Left glanced up over his head and her eyes narrowed. The dragon looked to where she glared. In the doorway, an Exchange Guard had appeared, his low, flat hat dark over his face. With how thick the fog crept outside, he looked like he had just emerged from a cloud like some ill-wanted elemental.

Wrathion frowned in distaste. “Do you need something?”

The Exchange Guards had come back to the Veiled Stair two days ago. The Blacktalons, both old and recently hired in the past week, reported that some were carrying boxes stamped with the Black Market's symbol as they'd trudged into their relatively clean building. Wrathion had thought himself free and clear of Madam Goya's “deal” - he hadn't answered, then, yet – until one of such Exchange Guards came knocking, asking for his reply.

Wrathion hadn't replied earlier because he honestly did not know how to. He knew Madam Goya was not bluffing, but knew her level of blackmail was a stretch. Many had been corrupted by the Sha and many still had not heard the dead Old God itself. Even still – Wrathion was wary. He had worked too hard, too much, to appear as he was – _unlike_ his family – that he didn't want the story of his Sha corruption to evolve into something worse as it passed from mouth to mouth, as stories often did.

So he'd said yes. Somewhat.

Oh, certainly, Wrathion had gushed in mocking, false subservience until the Exchange Guard had bristled at the insult. Of _course_ he would help the dear and esteemed Madam Goya with retrieving her lost goods. He was a generous prince, after all.

Wrathion had said nothing regarding the black dragons. The Exchange Guard at the time had not asked.

Now a different one had returned, two days later.

The pandaren touched his yellow hat in greeting. “Madam Goya thanks you for the Blacktalons you have sent for temporary service. They have performed well in these past days.”

“And?” Wrathion prodded. A headache had begun to pound in his temple. 

“She asks of your answer regarding the dragon goods. The interested parties grow increasingly impatient.”

_Interested parties_. The Dragonmaw, of course. Wrathion forced down the scowl that threatened his face. He realized many uses for all mortals, but the Dragonmaw were a different matter. Their ability to turn dragons into slaves for mere mounts and unthinking machines of war was unforgivable. Dragons could not be harnessed! The thought made his skin crawl.

“I have no answer.”

The Exchange Guard stared at him. Behind the pandaren, the fog swirled, so thick Wrathion could not even see the small area with the restored kite stand in the small area below.

“It is either yes or no,” the Guard prodded. Wrathion heard the small _click_ of Left tightening her grip on her crossbow.

Damn Madam Goya. Wrathion kept his face even. “Fine. I will help Madam Goya with the supply.” 

The answer pleased the Guard. The pandaren gave a bob of his head in a false bow and before Wrathion could glare, the light-footed Guard exited the Tavern, and suddenly the inn was empty, as if the pandaren had never been there.

At least such an exchange was quick, but not unsurprisingly so. Wrathion rolled his eyes.

“That was not the answer I was expecting them to give you, Your Majesty,” grumbled Left. She had one eyebrow perked. Wrathion snorted.

“It's an answer that gives me time to think it over. Madam Goya has no idea where ' _her'_ dragons _are_. She needs me to help. Otherwise she would have taken them for herself.” He flipped through the _Saurok and Jinyu_ , its pages worn with use. Wrathion shut it closed. “At the very least, it gives me a handful of days.”

It would be difficult to skirt around this second problem. Wrathion had no intention of giving Madam Goya his living family members, and he did not want to give her their bodies, either. The fresh supply of black dragon parts would be too suspicious when on the market. No. He would burn them, and forget they ever existed.

But how to brush away Madam Goya? Wrathion would not go about it peacefully as Anduin Wrynn had so naively suggested. There had to be some other way to get the Black Market leader to bow out of her... _agreement._ But with how little he'd slept, he hadn't had enough sense to think over his options. He couldn't even think straight. 

Left asked nothing more. He felt the tension between them, fueled by his frustration throughout the week he'd taken out on everyone around him. It only made him more frustrated.

“But - to be... _safe_. Have you heard any word from the two I sent to Sik'vess and Kun-lai?”

“Nothing from Sik'vess, but those in Kun-lai are hindered by a blizzard. It will be hours before they reach the cave.”

Wrathion huffed. “They are taking too long.”

Before Left had time to reply, Wrathion began up the stairs. They'd been repaired along with everything else but the new planks squeaked underneath his feet.

Sik'vess. How he hated to think of _Sik'vess_. But when Anduin Wrynn had told him of Madam Goya's threat, one thing had popped into his head: there were dragons in Azeroth she could get her hands on to sell. 

Wrathion wasn't even sure if Sabellian had died in his dragon form. He'd stabbed him when he'd been a human. Would he have reverted back to his true shape during his death? Wrathion did not know or care. He only wanted to make sure that, if he had died a dragon, Goya wouldn't find his body.

He swept past he and Anduin Wrynn's abandoned board game. The dice cup remained in pieces on the opposite side of the room where he'd thrown it at the wall. He didn't look at it, but he knew it was there. Without pausing Wrathion went through the second hallway and went into his room. He closed the door. His head pound.

Of course, Sabellian wasn't the only black dragon to be on Azeroth. He had brought his two children: the one that had died in the Kun-lai cave and the other... well. Wrathion wasn't sure what had happened to the other one, other than know she had to be dead. He recalled Sabellian speaking to her on that little automaton when the alchemist had stolen Anduin and him, telling her to fight off the sickness. With Sabellian dead, no one could heal her. Good. She probably died at sea.

Knowing such carcasses existed, he'd sent Blacktalons to confiscate the bodies and burn them before Goya knew there were black dragon carcasses _here_ and not some planet away. Wrathion assumed she didn't know, at least, but with how long his Blacktalons were taking... perhaps Goya had found the bodies already and his rogues were trying to track his stolen goods down. He bristled at the thought but found it unlikely. No. They were just being _slow._

There was one way to check. Wrathion threw the worn novel on his pile of books to the side and sat on the edge of his bed. He closed his eyes and when he met darkness, the dragon tilted and skewered his focus, as if he fine-tuned a gear. The little red dots of his gems lit up in the blackness, and he grabbed a hold of one immediately as he recognized its signal and feel.

His inner eye began to warp. The dark leaked away to be replaced by a gloomy sort of blue until the scene sharpened into clarity. Instead of his room Wrathion was now in Townlong; just ahead he could make out the distant tips of the Shado-pan Garrison, and the ground rumbled as a lumbering mushan herd moved by the two Blacktalons who crouched behind one of the mahogany and red trees that dotted the plains.

“My Prince,” greeted the worgen whose gem Wrathion now looked out of. The Blacktalon did not sound surprised, but... wary.

“What is causing this delay?”

The worgen glanced at his partner, one of the few draenei assassins Wrathion had hired. She shrugged. Wrathion knew they were sharing some secret conversation in the silence and it bothered him.

“Well?” Wrathion prodded.

“It has been difficult to get even marginally close to Sik'vess, Prince Wrathion,” murmured the worgen.

“ _Why_?”

“The mantid – ah. I will show you.” The scene swept around as the worgen turned his head.

Wrathion did not understand what he saw, at first. It looked like a black cloud had come down to earth to surround what was unmistakably Sik'vess, hunched like a fallen giant in the dark form that surrounded it. But the cloud was dense and... _moving._

But then he saw the flash of amber wings, of amber polearms and swords, of purple armor and golden helmets. It was no cloud that surrounded the broken kypari tree. It was an entire host of flying mantid, and as Wrathion focused his bodiless senses, he could make out the continual buzz of the army, a vibration that rattled the worgen's teeth.

“It's been difficult to get close,” the worgen stated. “We don't know what they're doing. When we arrived this morning, they were there. They don't move. They just hover. There's clearly some forces going to and fro from here to the Dread Wastes. Seen a paragon or two. At least the flying one. Yelling in their language. Can't understand 'im.”

The flying one. Kil'ruk, of course.

Two things became clear to Wrathion. One: they were not going to be able to retrieve Sabellian's body. With any luck the mantid would eat it or, if the mantid left, they'd be able to retrieve it later, and no Exchange Guard could get it now, either. Two: something was happening here that Wrathion both did and did not understand. The scene seemed so intimately familiar and then not. A cloud of darkness, the buzzing, the distant cries. Something itched at the back of his head, a forgotten memory. No – a vision. He felt his body, far away, clench its teeth. 

_But each day His voice grows stronger. His return is imminent. He has promised the return of our Empire._

Xaril had said such a thing. Wrathion had thought them mad, or bluffing. Honestly, the entire Klaxxi fiasco had left him confused. Why had they wanted Sabellian and him so much? Did this enormous host which swarmed before him not please Y'shaarj enough? What had the sonar done to him, if anything? What did two dragons lend the Old God, if, indeed, he was rising?

No – not _if_. Wrathion remembered seeing the dig site through Anduin's eyes and feeling the ancient wrongness that had gusted from the mine. 

The two, as he thought then, were not coincidences. He'd been hoping to hear back from the Blacktalons he'd sent to gather information about all of the things he had missed during his little unwanted adventure about the dig site in particular.

“My Prince?”

Wrathion drew away from his whirring thoughts. Too much. There was too much to think about and his exhaustion made them sluggish. He was missing something. It was making him angry. And his headache was getting worse.

“Forget about Sabellian's body. I know you can't get it. For now.” Wrathion hesitated. “Study the mantid. I want to know what they do, where they move. Everything. Anything!”

And before the worgen could reply, Wrathion cut off the connection. 

Again he found himself in his room, darker even than the somberness of Townlong. The light of the single lantern guttered and hissed near his drawn-curtain windows. Wrathion was thankful for the dimness – oh, how his head _pounded._ He grit his teeth and with a grunt, he fell back onto the bed to stare at the ceiling.

Questions and answers and thoughts and feelings twirled in his head. He was always so careful with filing his thoughts, plucking them like books from a shelf so he could deal with them on his own time. He could brush away unwanted thoughts and memories with a mental glance and keep a healthy collection of information at his fingertips.

But he was so tired. So tired. His mental fingers slipped as he tried to grab onto focus. What was happening in the Vale? With the revolution in the Barrens? What were the mantid waiting for? Would his champions come when summoned? When would he be allowed to _sleep_ without waking in terror moments later?

Hissing under his breath, Wrathion grabbed _The Saurok and the Jinyu_ and tried to read himself to sleep.

\---

Three days, and nothing.

Samia stared out over the green, bumpy plains. It stretched onward to both the west and east, seemingly infinite in scope, until the horizon claimed its edge; she could just make out mountains, gold in the distance, blocking the north. 

Such scenery had changed little in their first day here. No matter how long they walked, the plains continued to roll and the mountains in the north remained, a line from west to east. Even the thick, clear river which rushed behind her now was a constant, though she was glad that the group had not had to cross it a second time, as they had this morning when creeping out of what she had come to learn was the Jade Forest.

With a sigh, Samia rubbed at her eyes. This place teemed with an earthy, rich life, the air was warm and smelled of water and vegetation, and there drifted a strange airiness to the place which lifted the spirit - but it might as well have been a desert, void of interest or information.

_Three days and nothing_. Samia's neck began to ache. She dropped her hand from her face.

“Nothing,” she called, then turned and slid down the small hill she'd clambered up for a good viewpoint. Her boots kicked up grass and stuck to her ankles as she halted at the bottom. The group waited for her.

And an interesting group it was, she supposed, as she flicked off the offending grass with the toe of her boots. The nether-drakes had done as she had asked, and had managed draenei forms; in front of her now stood four of them. They looked convincing, their pastel skin and hair passing well for a draenei's, and their armor and cloth and leather, well-crafted. 

“Nothing?” Repeated Feraku. His draenei form was unsurprisingly slim and his azure and gold robes clung to his sloped shoulders, immaculate. “There must be -”

“There isn't,” Samia interrupted with a snap. “Just the plains and the mountains. The only thing of interest I saw was a small complex of buildings to the west. We can try it after we pack up camp.”

“Camp” was an overstatement. They'd only killed a stag which had wandered too close and they had stopped to feed, and now the carcass, picked clean, lay in a charred heap of bones behind the hill. At least, Samia thought as the nether-drakes began to pull the bones and toss them into the river, food was plentiful here. 

She hoped such feasting was available for her brother and sister, too. Samia's stomach twisted. Leaving them hadn't been easy, three days ago on that cliff along the sea. After they had rested, Samia had split them up into three groups as she had said before, with one of her siblings in each. She had wondered if keeping them in one group – _her_ group – would have been beneficial, but she still, despite their eagerness to find Wrathion, Samia remained... wary of the nether-drakes. They wanted to kill Wrathion as badly as she, but she could not afford them to forget they were here for Sabellian as well, like it or not. She couldn't have them making a bee-line for the self-proclaimed Black Prince and ignore her father. Thus, she'd put her siblings in charge. She hadn't missed the annoyance in some of the drakes' faces; Pyria was young in comparison to some of the Netherwing who had come.

They would just have to live with it. 

No word had come from any of them, anyway, not even Rexxar. Samia was unsurprised but remained frustrated. _Three days!_ Sabellian could easily be dead already – but there was nothing they could do. This place was alien to them, uncharted, and being stuck in their mortal forms made the trek five times slower. Had they been able to _fly_... but Samia did not want to take the risk. And besides, the Jade Forest's thick canopy debilitated all flying. Here in this valley, though... it was possible, if they flew high enough...

“Let's go,” Samia ordered. The last of the deer bones disappeared into the river with a great splash, drops wetting her cheeks. She checked her sword at her hip out of habit and soon they were off. 

The grass was soft and the earth firm beneath her feet, and the air, still warm on her face. A host of monstrous white hawks flew past them, too large to ever be Spirit. 

She focused on the hazy complex beyond. Maybe _this_ one would give them leads. 

_Doubtful_ , some pessimistic part of her thought. They'd stopped at three mortal establishments already, and nothing. No one knew who the Black Prince was or pretended to lie about not knowing who he was. 

“So, Malfas,” Samia said, catching the tall nether-drake's attention. “You were telling me about Shadowmoon?”

The drake's face lit up. His draenei form was thick-bodied and muscular, but his face thin and pointed, as if he was carved from two different stones. He wore padded purple leather, deep in color like the skies of Netherstorm. 

“Yes,” he said, hurrying up to her side. His dagger jingled at his belt. “Where'd we leave off, again?”

“Something about the demons.”

“Yes! The demons.”

Samia glanced to the right. Ahead, a paved road had emerged from a tall clump of hills that rose in the middle of the plains. A traveling route, clearly. She adjusted their course towards it.

“Anyway, Shadowmoon was fairly abandoned after Illidan's defeat,” Malfas began. They had been swapping stories on the journey; talking about the Black Prince and Sabellian grew repetitive, after a while, and Samia knew little of the Netherwing's situation, and they knew little of the Black Dragonflight's. It was a... learning, but entertaining, exercise. “Not too many demons, besides random pockets of them. The Netherwing took back a lot of empty territory... except, of course, the Crystal Spine in Blade's Edge.” They shared an uncomfortable silence before Malfas cleared his throat. “Most of the southern region is ours, and some of the west, slipping into Terokkar. It was good, for a long time.”

“Shadowmoon sounds like a hellish place to live,” Samia said. She had only been there once – for the second talks between the Black Dragonflight and the Netherwing for their future alliance. The sky had been dark and green – sickly. The earth, black and charred. The only saving grace had been the great crystals that grew on the Netherwing's main isle, which shined split colors like a prism in every direction. 

“We think the same about Blade's Edge,” piped in Zoya, one of the nether-drakes who had had the hardest time of shifting into draenei form – not in the form of her body, but the color of her skin. There were no _veridian_ draenei. Now she was a muddy sort of azure, with remaining tinges of green beneath her flesh. 

Samia had to smile at that. “Most people do.”

Malfas cleared his throat; he looked fairly distressed that his story had been interrupted. Samia waved his hand at him to continue as they reached the road. No one was on it, yet, but with how worn the stones were, Samia had no doubt they would run into mortals soon enough.

“It wasn't until recently the demonic activity began to circulate again,” Malfas said. “It started out slowly, at first – we didn't notice. It was only when we saw dozens of felhounds scouting our territory that we realized.”

Samia had heard something similar from Neltharaku. She frowned. “The demons are coming back.”

“Yes. We don't really know where from, either. The old Forge Camps are destroyed, and all of our scouting parties come back with no leads. Even the Black Temple is... mostly abandoned.”

“Mostly!” Zoya repeated. “No – there were these warlocks there, not too long ago. They were taken care of.”

“Yes, so 'mostly abandoned' fit fine!” Malfas and Zoya – brother and sister, from the same clutch, Samia had learned – huffed at each other. 

“It's caused quite a split between the Netherwing,” Feraku said. He was busy cleaning the tip of his blue staff with the end of his sleeve. “My father has had... _words_ with Barthamus, my uncle.”

“Words.” Samia glanced back at Feraku, raising an eyebrow. Feraku didn't look up from his staff, and it was only after Azorka, the last and most silent of the party (Samia had only heard her utter a handful of sentences), elbowed his side did he startle and look up.

“What?”

“Are you going to elaborate on that?”

Feraku hesitated before, with a sigh, he slid his staff along his back. “My uncle Barthamus wants to abandon Shadowmoon, to seek better lands. My brother – the Prince, Mordenaku – and my father – Neltharaku, of course – want to stay in Shadowmoon. Some agree with my uncle, some agree with my father.”

Samia blinked, and then a slow, disbelieving smile slid up her face, earning a confused look from Feraku. “That sounds like what happened with us, after we arrived at Blade's Edge.”

“And what happened, then?” Feraku asked, frowning.

“A series of events I really don't want to talk about,” Samia said. Malfas's face dropped in disappointment. “But, I guess you told me about your situation. So.” She shrugged. “When Deathwing abandoned us, there was more than just our brood. There were two other couples. Two breeding couples... though I think you know that with what happened at the Crystal Spine. Anyway, the withdrawal from the Old Gods... didn't sit well with some. We didn't see clarity and rainbows and songbirds overnight. Obsidia was one of – wait. We're here.”

Ahead of them sprawled the complex that Samia had seen before, from afar. Larger than she had expected, the buildings were low, made of hardy bamboo; surrounding the area were pockets of gardens where red, blooming flowers grew, and what seemed to be ditches full of... worms, fat, as big as one of her arms. Gatherings of moths flitted around the complex and their wings gave off a white, glowing sheen.

“Alright. Let's split up,” Samia said as they made their way down. A scent of dirt and a strange sweetness she could not place wafted from the buildings.

It mattered little. She was beginning to think this place as a lost cause, already. They should have been looking for an inn or tavern, where rumor and information was plenty. “Remember, just... general questions. You're visiting Pandaria like all the rest. Act interested in – whatever they're doing.”

While many pandaren milled around the complex, garbed in beautiful ivory robes, they paid the dragons no heed as the group exited the road and made their way over - too intent, it seemed, with their jobs. Samia watched with some distaste as a pandaren fed some of the red flowers to the worms, who gobbled them up with relish. Others hauled shiny pink silk from one building to another.

It was when Samia scanned the area when she saw her.

“Stop,” Samia hissed. “One of Wrathion's rogues is up there.”

The rogue was in clear sight, a black shadow against the otherwise cheerful, sunny buildings. She was leaning up against the fence that surrounded the gardens, arms crossed, her eyes fixated on the pandaren feeding the worms. The elf had not noticed the group yet.

“We should leave,” suggested Malfas.

“No. Turning around would be conspicuous – and it's only one rogue. I think we could handle one.”

Samia began to walk again. “Split up. General questions,” she repeated, then forced herself to look away from Wrathion's lackey. Seeing the black leather, the red gem strapped to the human's forehead, made her angry. How much she wanted to go over and throttle her... but such a thing would have to wait. Briefly, as she made her way up to one of the buildings, the muffled clops of the nether-drakes' hooves spreading out behind her, Samia wondered if taking the rogue hostage would be beneficial. But with that gem of the rogue's... if they did not rip it away in time, they'd be seen, and maybe by Wrathion himself.

One thing was for sure, however – if they did not find information soon, snatching a Blacktalon like that remained their only option. She was reminded of the dead gem they'd taken from one of the rogues in the arakkoa's forest, cold in her bag. Would that come in handy?

Samia entered one of the buildings, one which lacked a door. Long and thin, it hosted tall boxes full of colored silks, and light filtered in through slim slits in the wall.

“Hello!” A pandaren greeted immediately, startling her. He wore the same robes the other mortals did: white and crisp and silk. “What can I do you for?”

“Just looking around,” Samia said, smiling. Adopting the coy and friendly mindset of Samia Inkling was easy. “What is this place?”

“The Silken Fields,” he said. His voice reminded her of the farmers of Westfall. “The finest silk of Pandaria is created right here.” He gestured to the silk boxes. “You're a traveler, I suppose?”

“Yes. I guess it's obvious.” Samia glanced around, feigning interest, and saw, through the slim shutters of the building, the rogue outside – no longer staring at the worms but at Malfas and Azorka, who spoke to two other pandaren. Samia frowned and looked away. 

“We give tours,” the pandaren offered. He grinned. “It'll give me a break, at least.”

“Sure. Show me around.”

Gods. This _was_ a waste of time. Samia watched the silk maker nudge a dozing, smaller pandaren with his foot, and the sleeper gave a grunt and a yawn. 

“Take my shift,” the pandaren said. “Yer' up, anyway.” He then nodded to Samia and exited the building. Samia squinted at the rogue between the shafts, bit the inside of her lip and followed.

“Here are our the mulberry gardens. We use these ta' feed the silkworms...”

Samia droned him out as they walked the complex; a polite nod and smile when he pointed out the various attractions appeased the pandaren well enough. To think she was on some silly tour while her father could be dead or dying was ludicrous, but at least she was seeing the scope of the buildings. Someone here _had_ to have heard of the Black Prince, especially with the rogue lingering about.

She noted Malfas and Azorka again, exiting one of the buildings. They saw her and shook her head. _Nothing_. Of course. 

They passed two pandaren, one in red and gold silk, stark against the regular white the others wore. 

“ - Yes, the fires were difficult to put out. Did you see the smoke? Terrible! Yet Stoneplow persevered. Can't imagine living there, myself. Too much tragedy seems to befall them.”

“I suppose.” The pandaren in white snorted and shook his head, the beads in his braids jingling. “A giant bug and a giant, flying lizard. What next?”

Now that was something.

“Excuse me.” Samia turned and hurried back to the two pandaren, startling her tour guide. She waved him off, effectively ending the tour. “What did you say? A giant lizard?”

“Yes. Two of them, fighting.” The pandaren in red wiped his hands, sticky with the remainder of crushed leaves, onto a towel. “I did not see them myself, but the smoke... _that_ certainly drifted from the Wall to here. A good deal of farmland was burned, I hear.” He shook his head. “Stoneplow has the fortitude of Niuzao to endure suffering after suffering.”

“I heard it was only one lizard,” argued the second pandaren. 

“No, it was two. A traveler coming from -”

“Do you know where these lizards went?” Samia interrupted, trying not to sound too excited. But – _two_ lizards? Who was the second? It could not be the Prince, being so young...

The pandaren in red hesitated before shaking his head. “No... No, I do not believe -”

“From what I heard, they went beyond the Wall,” the other pandaren said, sounding a bit haughty for having information his superior did not.

“Mm... and you also said there was a single lizard accounted for. But it does not matter. They are gone and have not returned. You have little to worry about.”

It took her a moment to realize the silk-maker was talking to her. Samia gave a quick nod, too absorbed with the sudden information to say anything articulate. 

Two _fighting_ lizards – dragons. Samia mumbled a thanks and extracted herself from the two to find the nether-drakes. Who was the second? She asked herself again, as she came upon Feraku and Zoya speaking to one of the pandaren. Samia made a beckoning motion with her fingers and they came over.

“Find anything?” Zoya asked. Samia nodded. 

“Yes. It's not much, but it's something. Where's Malfas and Azorka?”

“Here!” 

Samia whirled, her hand going to the hilt of her sword before she stalled and huffed. Malfas was behind her, his hands up in defense and eyes a bit wide. Azorka watched from the side.

“Don't do that,” Samia growled, and forced herself to relax. She took a quick look around. “Let's -” She paused. Wrathion's rogue now spoke to the pandaren in red; her hand rested on her belt, no doubt where a weapon hid. The silk-maker began to look nervous as a frown creased his lips.

Samia did not like it. She studied the rogue and ground her teeth before turning to walk at a quick pace, the grass crunching underfoot.

The draenei were quick to follow. 

“Is she looking at us?” Murmured Samia as they began to leave the complex. A moth the size of a plum flitted by Samia's face and she waved it away impatiently. 

“No,” Feraku said. “She was, earlier. She said nothin -”

“She is looking, now,” Azorka interrupted.

Samia growled. “If it were not for that gem, I would -”

A rush of black smoke coalesced a mere two feet from Samia. She stopped, scowling, just as the darkness took shape and form within a blink until the Blacktalon stood before them. 

The Blacktalon was a blood elf, lean but readily muscled; her hair remained bound in a black cap. The red gem on the rogue's forehead glittered down at Samia, who was quick to drop her scowl.

“Yes?” Samia smiled. No hint of anger surfaced in her voice though her fingers itched to touch her sword. She felt the nether-drakes tense behind her. “Can I help you? We were just on our way out.”

“I can see that,” the rogue replied, glancing the group over. She frowned. “You were speaking to Silkmaster Tsai.”

“Apparently.”

The rogue squinted down at her. 

“I would keep what information you heard to yourself,” the rogue said. Her hand went again to her belt and Samia forced back a smile; the dragon recalled the taste of the other Blacktalons' flesh and blood in her mouth as she had ripped them apart, and here was a single rogue, threatening her. With one quick transformation this blood elf could be devoured in a single snap of Samia's jaws. “It should not be spreading.”

“I think hiding information about something as large as two... 'lizards' flying and setting aflame farmland is going to be hard to hide,” Samia replied. She did not drop her smile. “Why waste your time?”

“Because the Prince demands it,” the rogue snapped, clearly flustered. It seemed she was not used to being questioned to in such a way, despite Samia's remaining but manipulative friendliness. “Do not speak of it.”

Samia opened her mouth but found herself pausing as her eyes settled on a speck of white circling high above, nearly lost in the haze of blue sky. It was not one of the monstrous white hawks: Spirit.

“Fine, fine. Alright,” Samia rushed, once she realized she was staring. A knot of anxiety and excitement curled in her stomach. “I'm sorry. I was only curious, is all.”

The rogue hesitated. For a moment she did nothing but study them, as if unsure of Samia's sudden agreement, before she dropped her hand from her belt. All the while Spirit circled high above, dark eyes fixated down on Samia. It was difficult not to look up at him. 

“Very well.” The rogue crossed her arms over her chest. “Have a... pleasant journey,” she said, for all the world sounding prim and proper – but Samia did not miss the hint of annoyance in her voice. “Remember – we're everywhere.”

While such a threat might have unnerved some, Samia felt it hollow. She watched the rogue skulk back to the Silken Fields. Her glare returned. 

“They really can't hold down on the theatrics, can they?” Zoya said, and Samia laughed quietly.

“No... apparently not. I shudder to think of how bad their master might be.” Samia shook her head and looked up, where Spirit still circled. The tightness in her muscles she did not know she was holding fell, escaping through her fingers and the soles of her feet. That had been too close for her liking; she only hoped whoever was on the other side of that all-seeing gem had not seen them. 

“Let's get back on the road,” said Samia, already walking. “Then I'll explain.”

It took them only a short time to make it back to the road. The Silken Fields grew hazy in distance.

“So?” Feraku prodded. “What news?”

“There were two dragons near a place called Stoneplow,” Samia said as she looked up. Spirit had followed them, and as she raised her arm, the hawk took the signal and spiraled down with a shrill cry. He landed on her outstretched wrist with a lighter weight than she had anticipated and gave a disgruntled squawk. 

A rolled, crinkled piece of parchment was wrapped to his foot.

As Samia gingerly unrolled the parchment, ignoring the bird's beady glare, she continued. “They were fighting. What about, I don't know, but I doubt the second dragon is the prince.” Spirit flew from her wrist and hopped onto Azorka's shoulder, where he began to nibble at the blue jewels adorning her plate pauldrons, beak _click click_ ing against the iron. “I just don't know who else it would _be_.”

“It's a lead, at least,” Zoya said, and Samia nodded. 

“You said a brother and sister came with Sabellian. You do not think it was one of them?” Ferkau asked. Samia glanced up at him.

“No,” she snapped. Feraku shied his eyes; perhaps she had said it too harshly. “We do not fight in our brood.”

Samia turned her attention back to the paper, her hackles rustled. Upon opening the yellowed parchment, text, hurriedly written, scrawled in front of her eyes. She read it quickly.

_I have little leads on the Baron, but I am narrowing in on Prince Wrathion's location. Sent Misha ahead – will hear back soon. Will not engage._

_Rexxar_

Samia dug her nails into the side of the paper, where it crinkled beneath her touch.

“He's found Wrathion, more or less,” she murmured, rereading the small message again, and then a third time. “No hint of my father, however...”

“Where is he?” Came the excited exclamation of Malfas, and Samia shook her head.

“Doesn't say. But it's about time.” Samia looked over at Spirit, ignoring the hammering of her heart. How could her father not be tracked to the same place, as well? She flipped over the piece of paper and then lay it flat against Malfas's back, who startled but went still after he realized what she was doing. 

After pulling a dulled piece of charcoal from her pack, Samia hurriedly scrawled back a message, explaining what they had just heard. 

Samia squinted at the words, then gingerly rolled the parchment back up and handed it to Malfas to deal with strapping it back on the hawk. 

Something was not right here. She crossed her arms and watched the nether-drake struggle to wrap it back on Spirit's leg, with Zoya trying to help and do it “her way” which only made her brother more upset, and frowned. The complications Sabellian could have run into... well, clearly the other dragon, who must have been an adult if he had been struggling so terribly with it to use his flame on open ground. 

She wondered what Pyria and Vaxian had found, if anything. She hoped so – and at least Rexxar had found the Prince.

“Let's head off to Stoneplow,” Samia said, once the message was secure and Spirit launched not a moment after into the sky, disappearing among the clouds, “next to this 'Wall.' Maybe we can get more info.”

“Should we not stay here?” Feraku said, and Samia stared at him. “If Rexxar is indeed about to find this Wrathion character, if we are far away -”

“If we're far away, we're far away. Vaxian and Pyria need to group up, too, before we even _think_ about confronting that child,” Samia interrupted, growling. “ _In the meantime_ we're going to look for my father. OK?”

Feraku stared at her. For a brief, tense moment it looked as if he was going to argue – his shoulders grew tense, his blue eyes burned hot – but then he sagged down and nodded, avoiding her eyes.

Samia huffed, turned, and set a quick but aggravated pace down the winding road; the nether-drakes' hooves clopped sharply behind her and distantly the last shrill cry of Spirit lingered, and then it was only the blue skies and the warm grass.

Three days and... _something_. But not enough. 

\---

 

The skies of Shadowmoon thundered.

It had been a long time since the greens of fel flame had rained down from the ugly jade sky, but even then the lingering demonic presence of the sundering of this world and Illidan's armies had some way to crop up, after all of these years. So the sky would rumble, but never rain, or the ground would quake and belch terrible noxious acid that would pain the eyes but would be too weak to blind or maim. The prey was plentiful but warped with the same energies that had scarred the landscape, and grew spikes and green flesh and a nasty disposition. To any outsider, Shadowmoon Valley was hell rather than home, but the Netherwings had adapted.

As they always had, Karynaku mused, as she lay perched on the abandoned spire once deemed the Warden's Cage. The fort had begun to erode with time, and tainted green rust always crunched under her feet when she walked the place she had once been imprisoned in by the Dragonmaw fel orcs. It pleased her to think that this fortress would one day fall, and perhaps their blessed crystals would grow in the wake of such ill memories, but for now, the spire allowed a high view and one she did not even have to hover and fly for. She could see all of Netherwing Field to the south, the Black Temple to the east and the green river mountain to the northwest. It was in no way beautiful, save for the Fields, whose crystals danced and shined in the fel-light of the sky. They soaked in the green, filtered out the muck in the light and shined out a kaleidoscope of colors: greens as bright as the forest, blues as bright as a Nagrand sky, purples and gold like the gems that grew into a crown-like formation on her head, which in itself twinkled and shone when she walked in the light. Here in this hell the Netherwing found beauty, not in what the landscape gave them but what they made. The crystals grew where they did, a symbiotic relationship. 

Looking out at the fields now, she saw many of her brood. Some were her own children and some were not. Since Illidan's defeat the Netherwing had prospered and multiple broods had branched, and with it, more territory. Shadowmoon was theirs.

But of course there was a lesser number in the fields, nowadays. Karynaku drummed her cerulean, gem claws on the creaking metal. It had been approximately more than two weeks ago that Neltharaku had gone to gain help from Sabellian and his brood for the rising demon numbers in Shadowmoon, only to find the Black Dragonflight had troubles of its own. 

And so with their alliance, the Netherwing had lent their aid. A quarter of her kin were in Blade's Edge, or perhaps, now, in Azeroth. Neltharaku and his brother Barthamus, too, had stayed in the Mountains to give their support. Karynaku had remained her to protect their own broods, and her son, Mordenaku, the prince of the Netherwing. 

As if her thoughts had summoned him, a great clambering shook the foundation of the fort. Karynaku had no need to look to see who it was; no one else dare disturb her when she lay up here.

“An angry sky, Mother,” said Mordenaku as he came to sit by her while remaining at a respectful distance. 

Karynaku nodded. “It will pass.” Mordenaku had an infuriating habit of stalling news with small talk. “What brings you here?”

“Barthamus has come back.”

Karynaku tensed her claws and for a brief moment her aura of calm wavered as she snapped her head back to her son. He shone azure and gold, and was as large as she was, though the growth of crystals on his body were stunted in comparison to her own host that glittered along her hide and face. 

“What?”

“Just a moment ago. He is not injured, save for what looks like his pride and temper.”

Karynaku rose. The crystals on her twinkled as a small arc of nether curled around her form. “That is unsurprising. He grows offended at any word.” She glanced over the fields and did not see the glittering form of Barthamus's cobalt hide. “He is alone?”

“Yes. If you would please follow me.”

Mordenaku lifted from the spire in two great beats of his shining wings and, nether energy trailing behind him, he swept down to the outskirts of Netherwing Fields. Karynaku followed.

With the expertise of past experience they zoomed around the jutting crystals of the fields. None of the other dragons made them any mind save for a couple of respectful nods or glances. Within moments, Mordenaku alighted down, and Karynaku followed. The dirt crunched underfoot, and the hum of the crystals, a comfortable and welcome vibration as intimate as her own heartbeat, surrounded her.

Ahead was Barthamus. He was stalking towards them, but stopped when they landed. Lightning coursed off his body in angry crackles.

“Why have you returned?” Karynaku came up to stand in front of her son, and Mordenaku drew back to take his rightful position, allowing his mother to take the forefront. “Your strength was needed in Blade's Edge.”

Because as little patience Karynaku had for her mate's brother, he was a skilled fighter with both force and his nether. He could whip the lightning-like energy around like a shaman; it was quite a lovely and frightening sight to see. 

“It was no choice of mine!” She noticed, now, Barthamus's sides heaved. Had he flown fast, or did it heave with anger? Or both? “Neltharaku has sent me back.”

Karynaku found herself unsurprised. Barthamus had begun stirring tension in the Netherwing, as was his nature to make everything more difficult than it needed to be. Neltharaku and, indeed, Karynaku herself had taken his inching dominance as insult once he had begun arguing against them. Their conflict stemmed from Shadowmoon itself; he said that it would become unsafe with the encroaching demons, while Karynaku and her mate thought otherwise. It had brought the Netherwing tension when they did not need it, and tension which only rose with this Black Dragonflight problem.

So – no. Karynaku was not surprised Barthamus had been sent back. Though her mate and his brother were fierce together in battle, together, especially with arguments...

But still she needed to ask. “And why is that?”

Barthamus shot her a sharp look. Karynaku growled and her own lightning began to stem ever-quicker from her body before the other dragon caught the message and lowered his eyes, but he did not look happy about it.

“Neltharaku thought it best I returned home,” Barthamus said, and he spit the last word from his mouth as if it were venom. “He wishes for Mordenaku to join him in my stead.”

Karynaku felt the energy of her son behind her lift, like static against her hide.

“Very well,” she said. She would be unhappy to see her son leave and be left with the temperamental Barthamus, but she knew it was for the best. At least here Barthamus would be surrounded by his own kind who knew when to put him in his place, rather than at Blade's Edge, where only a fraction of the Netherwing guarded. 

Even so – some agreed with Barthamus, that they might leave Shadowmoon. Karynaku was not blind to it. But she did not wish to linger on such things. She again turned her attention to her mate's brother.

“How fares the situation in Blade's Edge?”

“The black dragons have left with a dozen of our nether-drakes,” Barthamus explained dismissively. “You know of the exhausted food supply? The parties have only been somewhat successful. The food is half-rotted before it gets to the Mountains and the water from Zangarmarsh tastes of fungus and fish.” Barthamus snorted. “How I hunger for fresh blood!”

Karynaku digested the information. She had not heard much about the situation. It was difficult for a nether-dragon to make the trip from Blade's Edge to Zangarmarsh, from one edge of the “planet” to the other, simply to tell information. Of course she knew of the attack from Wrathion's rogues and that her mate had nearly died. She knew of the poisoned river, and that her kin had gone to help the Black Dragonflight, to uphold their end of the alliance. But it seemed that the state of affairs was still bad, even with the nether-dragons to help them. 

“Unfortunate,” Karynaku murmured. “Mordenaku. Leave at once.”

“Yes, Mother. Allow me to grab my weapons.”

She nodded her assent, and with a gust of charged wind, he was off, disappearing among the crystals.

Barthamus had begun to move past her. 

“I will not have you riling trouble here, Barthamus,” Karynaku said without turning her head as the other dragon slipped by. Barthamus stopped. They did not look at each other. “We do not need it, not now. The Netherwing is best when united, not scattered. I hope you understand this.”

Silence. Karynaku felt the crackle of his lightning dance around her skin, they stood so close.

“I will do what is best for the Netherwing,” Barthamus said. And then he was gone.

\---

The snow fell in great clumps rather than delicate flurries, and with such ferocity the entire landscape grew a depthless white, blind in every direction. The wind howled. Vaxian had never heard such a sound before, one both muted but with a packed forced to it which sent the thick membranes of his wings shuddering in the gust. Blade's Edge knew shrieking winds, but they were sharp, and he could see and hear where they came from. There was no mystery to them. These snowy winds came from nowhere, screamed from nothingness, from only the white blanket that stretched beyond. 

“We should stop!” Called one of the nether-drakes behind him. Okelaka's words were snatched almost instantly from her maw but Vaxian had just been able to catch them. 

He offered no answer. He knew they needed to stop. Even if the snow melted before it touched him and was of no concern save for an annoying wetness when the melted snow slapped back in his face, the blindness and careening winds were other matters entirely. A cliff could appear in front of him - in front of any of them - with no warning and he could break a wing, and that would be that.

But how to land when he could not even see a place to alight on? Coming into the mountains had been a choice not easily made, but one the group had decided on after some deliberation. The cold had given him concern and the nether-drakes, too, whose jelly-like hides were more adapted to the heat like his own black scaled one. But they had traversed the wide, rolling yellow plains of what he'd learned was Kun-lai Summit after they had taken the north while Samia to the west and Pyria, the southwest. The mountains had loomed in front of them on the third day, the first day they could finally fly and not trudge along in their human forms. The plains, or the mountains? Their choice had been decided when they had passed a large chunk of rock missing from one of the cliff sides that begun the range overlooking a small mortal encampment and though it was faint, _too_ faint, Vaxian had thought he had smelled the lingering scent of his father.

And now they were suffering for their choice. A powerful gust of wind hurdled at the side of his face and sent his head snapping back. His wings wobbled.

It was then, as he tilted his wings, that he spotted a glimpse of rocky darkness to his left. Out of sheer luck the snowy onslaught had parted so he could see it. 

“To the left,” Vaxian thundered, and he veered, aiming for the outcrop. Perhaps it had been a stretch of the imagination, but he had thought the slim view he'd been given had been a cave. He flew as slow as he could.

Vaxian felt the rock before he saw it. He snapped out his wings in a buoy just as the mountain face lurched from the snow. Some of the nether-drakes were not so lucky. Two smashed into the side with a yelp and a grunt.

“Cling to the side!” Vaxian ordered as he did the same. The winds beat down on them now, as if they were in the current of an angry river rather than in a blizzard. The drakes managed to find purchase, though the two nether-drake twins who'd hurtled into the side had begun to slip.

“What is it? What is it? We can't stay clinging here,” Okelaka panted to his right. Vaxian squinted through the snow. Perhaps he had imagined the cave. Such luck -

No! There it nestled, between the rock above them, halfway hidden by snow piled on from the shrieking blizzard. 

“Follow me. Keep your wings tucked close. They will be broken if opened at the wrong angle to the wind.” Vaxian's voice was deep and loud enough to carry over the wind. Steadily, on his talons and claws, he began to scuttle up the rock face. They were at a dangerous angle to the gusts now. His command had been no bluff. Even keeping his head lifted remained difficult as the wind pushed and pulled at it, as if the element hoped to tear it clean off.

The trek up to the cave mouth was slow, and hard. The wind pushed as he pulled up. More than once he heard the nether-drakes trumpet in alarm – mostly the twins. But he kept his teeth gritted and hooked as if tearing into prey. Weakness he could never show, especially as leader to this party. His broodfather and broodmother had taught him as much.

It took a long time to reach the cave, but when Vaxian did, he clambered up without celebration, nosing through the hard-packed clump of snow that had accumulated there so he could climb up into the entrance. He quickly cleared the rest of the snow so the nether-drakes would have an easier time of climbing into the entry.

“Good. Nearly there,” he called down once the snow was gone, offering gruffly spoken but sincere support. “Watch for the rock to your right, Okelaka – and the one atop, Ralfas. There. Good. Easy now.”

One by one the four nether-drakes scurried up, until finally they were safe in the cave. Vaxian glanced them over. None were hurt, but all, even him, were exhausted; their chests heaved with effort of battling the storm and the climb. Melted snow dripped cold on his heated scales to become an uncomfortable lukewarm. 

At least it was quieter. The wind howled, but it had grown more muted than it had been before. Vaxian glanced around and studied the cave for the first time. It was small, but would fit the five of them as they waited out the blizzard. Stalactites grew in great icy fingers that nearly reached the floor, slick and shining with melted and melting snow, stomped through with their paw prints. Water dripped from the formations' ends in hollow little _blips_.

“We'll rest here for the night,” Vaxian rumbled. He turned his serpentine neck to stare out the entrance. The storm raged on. He saw nothing in its depths. “Or until the blizzard subsides. Is this alright?”

“Yes, it's fine,” said Ralfas, already sprawled on the cold stone floor. Okelaka gave him a nod and the others made him no comment. 

Vaxian sank to his haunches and watched the snow. A silence settled between them, interspersed only by the dripping of the stalactites. The roar of the wind was now a backdrop, as unconsciously heard as their own breathing. 

A pang of hunger gripped his stomach. Vaxian ignored it. He couldn't afford to linger over such selfish qualms when the others no doubt felt the same; they had not eaten since leaving the the Jade Forest that morning, after all, and he doubted game would be plentiful up in these crags. But once the storm was gone they'd push through these abominable mountains and find whatever they found on the other side – and hopefully grow closer to finding both the Black Prince and his father. 

Vaxian had no doubt they would find them – whether “they” were his group, or Samia's, or Pyria's or Rexxar on his lonesome. What he did find himself troubled with was the lack of the communication from the groups. Spirit had been the messenger bird. Such a fragile little creature, the drake mused, to carry such an important role. 

But Vaxian was holding out on the suspicion that something had befallen the others. It had only been three days, after all, and such wariness was childish, foolish. He knew it stemmed from his lonesomeness after the separation from his siblings, something which both surprised him and did not. Dragons at his age often left their brood to find mates of their own. It was custom, though he would never have the pleasure of actually doing it with no mate prospects. He hadn't expected the loneliness – or perhaps he had, and had not been ready for it. Vaxian was unsure if the close-knit ties of his brood was normal or not with nothing to compare it to. He suspected the latter. Why else would he wish for the company of his siblings so, if this was a custom he would have done in another life, if things were different?

In the dark and snow, he mulled, and the nether-drakes slept. 

\---

For three days, Sabellian slept little and the pain lingered as fiercely as it had since he had first wakened.

The nightmares did not help.

While his fours days of sleeping had been dreamless, the night after he had woken up and realized the situation, he was assaulted with an entire host of horror. Mostly there had been images – flashes, all soundless, as if he flipped through shattered pictures in a book. Some images were familiar, some not; Deathwing made many appearances, as Sabellian had never been able to fully erase his father's scarred and hateful face from his memories, and there was Gruul, of course, as there always was in such nightmares, with his childrens' bloody bodies, some dead from the gronn and some from Wrathion. But then there was an unfamiliar city of bronze, forgotten in snowy mountains, and rising below it was a maw whose thousands upon thousands of teeth were lined like soldiers in the ranks. There was a desert, too, and golems of obsidian with dog-heads, and then a rotting purple heart that _thumped_ desperately, barely alive – and through all the images ran rivers of blood, superimposed like a network of veins. Though there had been no sound, the terror of the images, even if they were not inherently frightening, made him wake in the dead of night until he was too tired to force his eyes open, and he fell asleep until the nightmares found him again and the cycle continued.

The second night, the dreams had returned with sound. He heard the roar of Gruul and the screams of his dying children as they choked upon their own blood, and then his own screaming fueled by the Sha, high like the wind but as awful as a banshee's. There was laughter, too, dark and guttural, from the city of bronze in the snow and worse yet, throughout the dreams, a quiet, scratching murmuring had acted as a gentle but sinister backdrop.

He had less sleep than the first, and it was on the third night he heard voices.

It was remarkably similar to the nightmare he'd had in Townlong Steppes, before the mantid had found them. There had been no images, only an unfathomable darkness, and the voices. The whispers had returned, but others, too, voices as intimate as his own. The voice that had made the laugh in the snowy citadel and a softer one from the desert sands had been there, but they had sounded weak, as they had before – these were mere croaks of their former power, a power Sabellian had known in their voices during his millennia as their minion. Their whispers had been hard to make out, and senseless.

But there had other voices, stronger. Ones whose existence had yet to be discovered and driven back like the others. They had tormented him while he slept and while he wished he would wake like he had before.

Then the last voice had appeared. Though this one had been weaker than even the first two, this one had been closer, close enough that Sabellian could feel its presence on his skin and in his bones, like a germ.

He had recognized it immediately; it had been the one to speak to him in Townlong, and the one that had been, though quiet, fueling him through his Sha-infested Hatred. 

“You did well,” Y'shaarj had praised in his hoarse whisper, and the sound raked across Sabellian's face. “Such hatred...”

Sabellian had been unable to speak in this dream, unlike the last. His teeth felt as if they had melted together.

“You feel it,” the Old God had continued. “You are succumbing... to me.” A pause, and then a breathy chuckle. “Like your child... in the mountains. How sweet... such blood tasted.”

Anger had lit in Sabellian's chest, and instantly Y'shaarj had inhaled, as if he fed off of it. The next time he had spoken, his voice was louder, strengthened on the negative emotion.

“You cannot escape from me,” Y'shaarj had said. “I have slipped between the cracks, now that you have succumbed to your anger as I commanded. Even now as you dream I find my way into your reality... into your mind, so you will find me upon waking.” A low, slow chuckle. “I grow stronger, little weak thing. My Servants prepared you well.” A low rumbled had echoed through the darkness. “Your will, I shall feast on, just as I will feast on his. On all. Those so willing... those who hate... who fear, who doubt... no one can save you.”

Though he'd remained sleeping the entire night, when he woke that morning, Sabellian felt like he had not slept at all, so exhausted was he.

It was now mid-afternoon, hours after the dream. Sabellian was sitting up in his bed, purple bags heavy underneath his eyes. The pain, while a constant companion, had at least lessened enough where he could sit up like this. The mistweavers had been working tirelessly, when he was asleep and not – but with the wounds as fierce as his, only so much could be done in such a short time. 

Some of the monks had stared at him while they'd put new bandages on him, and if Sabellian had not been so focused on staring at the terrible puckered wound, dark pink like salmon's flesh, on his stomach from Wrathion's dagger, then he would have snapped at them. 

One monk had said he'd had the blessing of Niuzao upon him, to survive such suffering. Sabellian did not know or care who this Niuzao was; all he knew was that he'd just wanted to get out of that tree and find his daughter... minus the burning hatred that had given him the strength to do so.

There were no monks around, now – just Nasandria, who sat in human form on the opposite end of the room. She flipped with a touchable boredom through a tome that she'd found in the bookcase. 

Sabellian did not like showing such weakness to her, but he also did want to push her out so he could have some space and to keep the remaining scraps of his bruised pride in check. He had no intention of telling her about his latest dream, whose terror weighed on him like plate pauldrons on his shoulders.

Had it been a bluff, simply to scorn him? Sabellian heard nothing in his mind – not even the smallest whisper. Y'shaarj had visited him there on the Townlong Steppes, and Sabellian had remembered the anger -... but had that been his _own_ anger, or one fueled by the Old God? The lines were blurring, and it secretly scared him. Were his emotions his own, or one tugged at by the dead god?

At any rate, there was no denying he had heard Y'shaarj when... _possessed_. The word made him both angry and sick. The voice had been weak but it had been there all the same, ushering him on as he'd crushed both mantid and then pandaren in his jaws and claws.

Sabellian sighed. If Y'shaarj was getting to him – if the Sha had opened some crack, some link, one that was manifesting again in his dreams – what then? Would he have to skulk back to Outland like a beaten dog to lick his wounds and slip up his defenses again, while Wrathion remained very much alive? Fail so terribly in his revenge upon the boy that he would return home with one child dead and another forever maimed? And what would he find in Blade's Edge, now that Wrathion had sent Blacktalons to attack his children?

Sabellian had faith in Samia, however. His eldest daughter could be stubborn - defiant, even - but she was deterministic and good, and her fighting skills had been passed down from Kesia's legendary ferocity. If Samia was with the brood, they would be safe.

But still Sabellian's head was swimming, and such stress was beginning to make his wounds hurt even more. The dragon scrunched his eyes shut and ran a hand down his face and neck - 

And paused, when his fingers felt something hot and smooth on his throat, like heated metal. Sabellian frowned and opened his eyes. He tried to crane his head to see what the object _was_ , and could just glimpse a slim glimpse of silver, wrapped around his neck like a collar. 

Sabellian growled. He had not noticed it before because he was so used to something around his neck: the tight white turtleneck from his robe, which he had yet to get back and was beginning to worry for.

“What is this?” Sabellian ran his fingers around the collar, seeking a clasp so he could take the offending article off. He found none. It was as if the band had been molded right there on his neck. 

Nasandria glanced up from her book and saw him touching the collar. Her eyes grew nervous. 

“Oh,” she said. “That.”

“Yes, _this_ ,” sad Sabellian, growling. He tried to tug the thing off with no luck, then tried a second time, attempting to pool some of his draconic strength into his hand to his grip would be tighter, but found he could not move his energy around like he usually was able. That was... unnatural. “What is this?”

Nasandria shifted in her chair. It squeaked beneath her. “Kalecgos put it on you,” she explained, her face suppressing a wince. “I told him he didn't need - “

“Kalecgos?” Sabellian had not seen the blue dragon since he'd fought him outside the Temple grounds. He frowned, aggravated. “What on earth _for_?”

“It forces you into human form, apparently,” said Nasandria, avoiding his eyes. “They weren't sure if you would... relapse, and try to shift to hurt anyone. So...”

Sabellian scowled. He was somewhat familiar with such an enchantment and instantly disliked it. To test it, he raised his arm and tried to shift his blunt nails into claws, but the pressurized pinpoint of energy surging in his chest didn't budge. He tried again and still the energy did not spread to his fingers.

“How do I get this infernal thing off?”

“Only Kalecgos can -”

“Go and get him.” Sabellian dropped his hand and jerked his head towards the door, ignoring the small bit of him that thought, perhaps, keeping the collar on would be wise, with the latest dream... “Be quick about it.”

Nasandria rose and disappeared within an instant, through the door and down the cold stone hallway, lit with blue torches. 

Sabellian waited impatiently. His mind roamed. Most of it touched upon Y'shaarj, and Blade's Edge, and Wrathion. For once, Sabellian was unsure of what to do. He prided himself on knowing the right answer, on knowing when the right time to strike was and what to say, but this was... different. Too many things were happening, and how could one fight a thing that had no physical form like the Old God which tormented him so?

But again he was calmed by the fact Y'shaarj had not made an appearance while Sabellian was awake. The Old God had said he was slipping through the cracks, but Sabellian was not about to let that happen. His body may be weak, but his mind was not. Not anymore, as it had been with the Sha. No matter how tired or worn down he felt.

Footsteps interrupted his musings, and, thankful for it, Sabellian looked up.

Nasandria came in first, eyebrows and mouth creased with annoyance, and then Kalecgos behind her.

The blue dragon looked... bad. Better, Sabellian supposed, than a week ago, but still bad. The right side of his face was bruised with a light yellow and purple like a rotten plum, and a thick bandage covered the whole of his neck. If he had any other injuries, his clothes covered them.

Despite his beaten appearance, Kalecgos had a neutral but somewhat friendly expression. The small curve of his lips faltered when he looked at Sabellian and the black dragon glowered at him.

“Hello -”

“I really do not have the patience for pleasantries,” Sabellian interrupted, then motioned to his collar with his good hand, his right. “Take this off.”

Kalecgos bit the inside of his cheek and Sabellian did not miss the gentle narrowing of the blue's eyes. The other dragon paused a moment more before giving a sigh and a nod.

“Alright,” Kalecgos conceded. He set down a satchel hanging from his side, one Sabellian thought familiar, worn and whitened in spots from wind shear. Nasandria stared at it.

Sabellian sat up straighter as Kalecgos came over to the side of the bed. He must look like a fool, he thought, wrapped up in gauze like a Winter Veil's gift and weak enough to remain bed-ridden.

Kalecgos, however, gave no sign of amusement or pity. Quite the opposite. He approached Sabellian as one would a biting snake.

“I apologize for the collar,” the blue dragon said. His voice had a firm, proud quality to it Sabellian didn't like. “We simply wanted to be cautious.”

“So I was told,” Sabellian grunted. He turned his head to the side so that Kalecgos might have a better angle at the band, and one where Sabellian's jugular was not underneath the blue's fingers.

Kalecgos understood. He reached out so his fingers touched the collar, and went to move away some of Sabellian's hair that was too close, only to stop as the black dragon growled.

“And you are feeling better?” Kalecgos asked as the tips of his fingers began to glow with a cold light. Sabellian stared straight ahead, unable to watch, as the angle was awkward.

“I feel splendid,” Sabellian snapped. “I have not thrown up smoke or felt the need to rip out your throat, but I suppose I will soon change my mind if you do not stop touching me within the minute.”

“My hands must stay on the collar for a moment more, or it will not come off.” The cold from Kalecgos's hand had amplified, and radiated on Sabellian's face. “Please try to refrain from killing me.”

Sabellian wrinkled his nose but remained silent, mostly to allow Kalecgos to concentrate so the collar wold come off quicker. He enjoyed his human form well enough, but being forced in it, with no connection to his dragon form, made him feel wholly trapped, caged like an animal in a small space. 

A minute passed, and then two. Finally on the third there was a sharp snap and Kalecgos drew away, collar in hand. It had been split in two, and glinted warmly in the colored lanterns' many lights.

“There we are,” Kalecgos announced. “I know how annoying such magic can be. Again, my apologies.”

Immediately Sabellian tried to twist his nails into claws, and as his fingers lengthened into black talons, he made a content noise and returned them back to normal. 

“Good. Now leave me alone.”

Kalecgos frowned, then glanced at the satchel. Nasandria, as Kalecgos had worked to take the collar off, had moved to the far side of the room, away from the bag.

“Actually,” the blue said, “I had thought to stay a moment. I've had... quite some time to myself, while I recuperated, and I think I know what it was that your daughter retrieved. I suppose it is important to you as well?”

Sabellian narrowed his eyes. He glanced at the bag and then Nasandria, who would not meet his eyes. She looked pale.

“The artifact is of no concern of yours,” Sabellian snapped. “You should not have it in your possession.”

Kalecgos ignored him, turning to grab the bag and open it. Sabellian bristled. Again he cursed his weakness and his wounds; the blue would not be turning his back on him so easily, then.

From the satchel Kalecgos withdrew a sphere of bronze; roughly about the size of his head, it was shiny and smooth, as if recently made. The other dragon's frown grew as he held it. 

“I am good with artifacts such as these,” Kalecgos explained warily. He placed both hands on the side of the sphere. “This one has been a bit difficult to figure out, but I believe I have it pinned.”

This was it? This was the item that had made Wrathion? Sabellian stared at the ball. It was clearly Titan, judging by the bronze and the agelessness of it, and of course Nasandria had said there had been Titan runes along the chest she had found it in. Such a thing did not surprise him; the Titans had created them, and their... _equipment_ pulling apart dead whelps to sew a new one – Wrathion – was morbid but not eye-widening. 

Sabellian had though it would be more than a ball, though.

“I know what it does,” Sabellian said, and Kalecgos gave him a wider frown. The blue glanced curiously over at Nasandria before his eyes again settled on Sabellian. 

“You do? But Nasandria -”

“I'll be back later,” Nasandria suddenly announced. She sprung from the chair and hurried out, disappearing beyond the doorway, before either of them could say anything.

“She always seems so... nervous around this,” Kalecgos murmured, his eyes lingering on where Nasandria had practically fled from the room. 

Sabellian glanced up at him and squinted. There were many questions regarding this new twist – namely why Kalecgos even had the damn thing in the first place, but at least, unlike the blue, he was not confused about his daughter's fear of the object. 

“Tell me, then: what do you think it does?” Sabellian asked.

“It's a reorigination device.” Kalecgos had lost his unsure tenor and spoke in a reined-in sort of excitement. “They're incredibly rare. I only know of one other that's been found – in Ulduar, of course – but unfortunately Yogg'saron's essence had more or less rendered it useless.”

Sabellian recalled the bronze city in his dreams but said nothing.

“They - well. You already know what it does. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be explaining it to you.”

Was Kalecgos mocking him? Sabellian squinted at the Blue dragon, whose gaze was locked on the sphere.

“Humor me,” Sabellian grumbled. He knew that the thing had taken the corruption out of Wrathion's... _parts_ , but not how it worked. Sabellian began to wonder if this dragon could help them – or, rather, be manipulated to help. 

Kalecgos nodded. Still he did not look up. If he'd seen Sabellian glaring at him from before he made no sign of it. 

“They do exactly as the name suggests. Mostly we believe they were... tools used by the Titans and their Watchers when they tamed Azeroth. They helped create and mold species. Isn't it incredible? Imagine what creature the thing I am holding could have made!”

Yes. Like a cocky, good-for-nothing, make-believe prince.

“I'm honestly surprised that your daughter was able to find it and retrieve it.” Kalecgos looked up. “The one in Ulduar was heavily guarded in Eonar's shrine by Ancient protectors, and there's been other chambers that suggested such an object like this was inside... but too many times Watchers have sprung to life, and, ah, moved away the interested parties.” His voice had taken a matter-of-fact tone, as if he was giving a lecture. “I hear many pose puzzles, too. Even riddles and mazes. If you fail them – well, the object disappears. It's why they're so rare. They must have been coveted by the Titans to hide them through such measures.”

“She did well,” Sabellian said. Nasandria had briefly mentioned stone giants in the chamber but had said nothing about fighting them.

Kalecgos took his short reply the wrong way. “Oh – I did not mean to question Nasandria's skills. I -”

Sabellian interrupted him with a wave of his hand.

“You know what it is, then. Have you been able to work it?”

Here Kalecgos hesitated, but his fingers moved to rest on another spot of the sphere. 

“I've been able to turn it on, yes,” Kalecgos admitted. “But the moment it springs to life, it snaps back to its dormant form.” The Blue sighed roughly. “No amount of Titan-spoken command works.”

Odd. Sabellian glanced down at the artifact. How had Nasandria gotten it to work?

“Perhaps it deigned there was nothing wrong with you,” Sabellian murmured, mostly to himself. Kalecgos tilted his head. “Turn it on.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf? I don't recall smashing your ears in. Turn it on.”

Kalecgos had actually begun to glare, which amused Sabellian more than angered him, when finally the Blue bit back whatever retort that was swelling in his throat and looked at the sphere. “Very well. But it will not work.” He pressed his fingers onto the spot he had moved them to a minute earlier. 

The sphere began to come to life. Immediately a gentle humming reverberated from the depth of the object and it rose, spinning on its axis like a globe, from Kalecgos's now-loose grip. The surface bubbled. Where was once a smoothness was now a craggy, rough surface of dark bronze and browns, and from its bumps lifted a delicate, cage-like contraption that spin around the ball. It emanated a glow but no heat Sabellian could feel.

“Boot-up protocol completed,” the mechanical voice hummed. 

“Continue,” Kalecgos said.

“Scanning for objective.”

“Now it will scan and power off,” Kalecgos sighed. And indeed a moment later an arc of light shot from the sphere. It swept its thin gaze over Kalecgos and whirred.

It turned to Sabellian. The dragon squinted as the light swept over his eyes and then his body.

Unlike with Kalecgos, the sphere gave pause.

“Anomaly detected.” It beeped. “Probable source: Azerothian Old God. Levels at..... 85.77%.”

Kalecgos gaped. He looked at the sphere and then at Sabellian, and then at the sphere again.

“It works! Incredible. How -” Kalecgos paused. “Why would you want such a thing?”

Sabellian forced himself to sit up straighter in bed and had to suppress a wince. Gods, how his wounds stung.

“This _thing_ may be able to help me in some way,” Sabellian retorted. He'd begun to think of it as a lost cause with what had happened to Nasandria, but... with Kalecgos here... there were more possibilities available.

The artifact stared at him.

“I don't understand. Would a reorigination device be able to read such levels?” Kalecgos approached the sphere, his hands clasped behind his back. It disregarded him. “I suppose – no, yes, that makes sense. If it created species for the Titans... it would need to know such signs of corruption, surely so it could dispose of whatever creature had been infected.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Hmm. Especially organic species, rather than their stone-bound Earthen and the like. Ironic, I suppose, as the Old Gods even cursed them, later on.” Kalecgos smiled faintly and it fell from his face. “Your corruption level is quite high.”

“I never said I was without corruption. Only that I was able to bar it.”

_Even now_? Some small part of him asked. He bristled. 

Without warning the sphere spoke again.

“WARNING. Rising levels at: 85.78%.”

Rising levels? Sabellian stared at the artifact and Kalecgos stared at him. How could he _gain_ corruption when he already had it?

But the dreams had become worse and worse, he recalled, worse with each dragging, painful day.

_Your will, I shall feast on._

“You look quite pale. Are you alright?”

“WARNING. Rising levels at: 85.79%.”

“Turn that thing off!” Sabellian snarled. An uncomfortable heat had begun to brim in his chest. He did not recognize what it was. Panic? He did not _panic._

“Power off.” The command was spoken in the lilting but powerful language of the Titans, and the sphere gave a shake before it drifted down to the nearest surface – one of the bookcases – and with a snap and a click, the cage and bumps disappeared and once again it was dormant.

Kalecgos picked it up. The Blue avoided his eyes. Sabellian cared little. He rubbed at his face with his left hand, which seemed to be the only damn thing on his body that wasn't wrapped in bandages, as he took deep, steadying breaths which came out with puffs of smoke.

Nothing. He heard nothing in his head, as he had before. The sphere had to be malfunctioning, somehow. It had to be.

 _Doubtful_. Yes, Sabellian knew that. The damn artifact had only confirmed his dreams and Y'shaarj's promises. 

_Rising levels_. And what, then, would happen when he hit 100%? 

He began to feel detached, like he was watching some game and not himself losing his mind. If he was losing his mind. Was he? At least such detachment stopped the panic.

Sabellian wanted to talk about something else.

“That _thing_ created Wrathion, the Black Prince,” Sabellian grumbled as he dropped his hand from his face. Kalecgos's face lit with interest and surprise, his eyes widening and his mouth growing slack. 

“Did it! I'd always wondered how the Reds created him. And I suppose this is why you and your family want it?”

“Clever.” Sabellian ran a hand through his hair, which felt brittle from the cold. 

“Why not use it right now, then? With your... rising levels, that should be top priority, I would imagine.”

Sabellian ground his teeth at the reminder. “It does not work that way. My daughter tried it and it took her arm.”

“Oh.” Kalecgos blinked and looked at the sphere a bit more warily. “I – that does not sound like anything I have researched. But Wrathion? How did it create him? I have not met the boy, but I am told he... has all of his body parts.”

“With what my daughter found, she suggested that... _artifact_ took three black dragons and fused them together after taking away the most corrupted parts of the body.”

Kalecgos stared. Disgust crinkled in the corners of his eyes.

“How like Nefarian,” the Blue said.

“How like Nefarian,” repeated Sabellian in agreement. 

Sabellian studied Kalecgos. The Blue again had turned his eyes to the sphere. Sharing such information had been easy; he'd piqued Kalecgos's interest, more than it had been before.

“It explains the aura it gives off,” Kalecgos murmured, so low Sabellian almost missed him.

“Speak up.”

“There is a – strangeness to its touch. It's not uncommon for old artifacts to feel odd, but this gives off a sort of wary feeling. It's quite disturbing.” Kalecgos looked up. “You cannot use this, if it does such a morbid thing.”

“No. Not like it is.”

Kalecgos tilted his head. The colored lanterns' lights cast on his pale face like the reflection of fire on ice. “You think it can do something else.”

“Perhaps. I have only seen some Titan artifacts in my ten thousand years, but their ingenuity is something to be admired. It must be able to extract the corruption in some other way.”

Kalecgos frowned. “I am not sure about that. The Titans were meticulous, and their methods... clean. To come to such a violent way of creation... it must have been a last resort.” Suddenly Kalecgos's initial interest as to what the sphere had made began to disappear in the Blue's eyes. How many things had died to create others was now the curiosity. Sabellian saw it clear on his face. 

But Sabellian refused to take no for an answer. There had to be _some_ way for the corruption to be ripped from his family. He would not skulk back to Blade's Edge and wait for the remains of the planet to finally drift off into the Twisting Nether and crumble underneath their feet, and he wanted to stay in Azeroth. They may be hated by every damn thing that walked this planet because of the gullibility of his father, but Sabellian would be damned if he wasn't allowed here because of it.

Only if the corruption was gone, though. He would never lead the rest of his brood back across the Dark Portal if not.

“There has to be some way,” Sabellian argued. “If you have researched so much as you keep yapping on about, you can reprogram it.”

Kalecgos hesitated. 

“I... suppose I can try,” Kalecgos muttered. “But I can make no promises. As I said, this is a rare object, and I do not want to destroy it.”

“Would you rather accidentally destroy it, or doom an entire species to exile and extinction, then, like the Blue Dragonflight's fate once was?” The question came out as a snarl.

Kalecgos flinched. He breathed out hard. “Very well. I will try. But as I said: I can make no promises, and I do not know how long it will take.” The Blue dragon looked up. They stared at each other in silence, and in the moment Sabellian saw what the former Aspect meant.

_I don't know if I'll be able to fix it before you reach 100%._

Something occurred to Sabellian, then. “The Reds used this. Where is Alexstrasza? She was here, was she not?” Not like he wished to speak to the Dragon Queen. She'd been the one to start the chain of events that had landed him in this bed with harpoon wounds in his shoulder and waist.

Now Kalecgos looked uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from foot to foot before he turned and slid the sphere into the bag, which Sabellian realized was Nasandria's. 

“She left after healing your daughter. I do not know why or to where. The Aspects – ah, the first Aspects – have had a hard time adjusting to this new world, and she... seems lost. Drifting.”

Sabellian snorted. “ _Lost_. Good.” Kalecgos squinted at him, not understanding, and Sabellian found himself tired of the Blue's presence. “Leave. I think you have work to do.”

Kalecgos swung the bag over his shoulder. He regarded Sabellian just as he had regarded the sphere: with a wary sort of interest. For a terse moment Sabellian thought the Blue dragon would argue – this was the whelp that had taken Kalecgos's place as Aspect for Deathwing's defeat, after all – but Kalecgos sighed, breaking their silence.

“Recover well,” Kalecgos said, in a voice as taut as their earlier moment had been. Oh, yes, there was the flash of insult in the Blue's eyes, dragon to dragon. 

But before the Blue argued, he turned on his heel and swept from the door, and Sabellian was alone with only his thoughts and what he knew was a deteriorating mind. 

 


	26. Chapter 26

[ Thank you all for the extremely kind comments! I'm very flattered, and I'm very glad everyone is enjoying the story! Thank you - your words mean a lot! ]]

 

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Wrathion slouched back on his bed. He knew that anyone walking into his room would see him as the pinnacle of relaxation: he'd propped himself up with all of his pillows, a novel rested closed on his lap, and his legs sprawled out in front of him.

This was, of course, the desired effect.

In reality, Wrathion felt like a coiled but rusted spring, too tense to relax but too worn to jolt. 

He still hadn't slept, a day and a half later. The nightmares had continued their onslaught. Deep circles had grown heavy underneath his eyes, and he could see his skull when he looked in the mirror, his face was so sunken. Worse still, some of his hair was falling out – and though hurriedly regrown with a hint of magic, he'd almost vomited when he'd seen the clump of black hair in his hand.

When _that_ had happened, Wrathion realized this was not anything _“normal.”_

Oh, he'd figured that the nightmares had been after-effects of his long and tiresome ideal, recycled ill-feelings, like sticking slime, recurring to haunt him. It'd happened before after he'd finished his business at Ravenholdt, but it had cleared soon enough, and he'd been left with a clear conscious and a readiness for Pandaria.

This was not that – and when he'd lain awake last night, he'd pinpointed what _else_ it could have been: the sonar the mantid had given him.

He'd been a fool not to realize it before. No, he couldn't remember what he'd seen when under that spell, listening to the high pitch he'd been forced to tune into, but it was clearly what was making him like this. 

“My Prince?”

“Come in, Left,” Wrathion called out, hating how his voice croaked.

The door shuddered – it had a bad hinge, and required some force to push it open – and Left came into the room. Her eyes were hard and her face, set. She regarded Wrathion with little to no expression, and in her arms she held a bundle of various scrolls.

“The information you asked for, my Prince,” Left announced. Wrathion nodded his head to his bedstand, and the orc set the papers down, which whistled and rustled as they shifted.

“Excellent.” Wrathion reached over and plucked up the scroll on top of the pile. Left had fetched these quickly. What would he do without her?

“They're from varying sources,” Left explained, keeping her distance from his bedside. Wrathion ran his fingers across the scroll's red mahogany base. The ends of his fingers shook. “From the dynasty of the Thunder King until the last Swarm.”

Wrathion hummed his approval. Mantid sonar was a subject he knew little about; the race was so alien that it was difficult to discern much from their guarded culture, even though he had heard some mortals had been able to befriend the Klaxxi. How in the Titans' name had they managed to do such a thing? He shook his head and looked over the scroll in his hands. Emblazoned along the curve was the proud, black inked name _Fulmin_. 

As he unfurled the scroll, Wrathion thought back to the event. 

_Both will have to do it! They won’t see the truth otherwise, Kil’ruk. You said it yourself._

A “truth” he didn't even remember or understand. A stupid plan for stupid creatures. _Honestly._

But as much as he tried to calm himself – the Klaxxi had not given him such a transfusion until _after_ Wrathion had denied Y'shaarj.

That wasn't the best omen.

“Do you require anything else, my Prince?”

“No, Left.” Wrathion paused, then hastily added: “Thank you.”

But Left said nothing, and as Wrathion slid open the scroll to its full length, the door creaked and then shut with the gentlest of clicks.

Wrathion looked up, set his lips in a thin line, and returned his attention back to the scroll. For a terrible moment the scrawled lettering was blurred beyond the most basic comprehension. He shook his head and blinked hard. Gods, he was tired. Finally, after he strained enough, the words sharpened so he could read them.

And he read. And read. Most of the writing was useless: how many warriors the mogu had lost that week, what defense they'd gained on the Wall, and estimates for the longevity of the Swarm. Wrathion scanned it all. Useless, useles... he paused. The writer, Fulmin, had mentioned a mechanism they'd unearthed and judging from the sudden sloppiness of their writing, they were excited about it. Whatever it was, it had somehow disconnected the swarmborn from the Empress.

Wrathion frowned. It was interesting but not quite what he was looking for; he was connected to no sonar, not anymore. He just had bad dreams. He read on, but Fulmin only wrote of the swarmborn's aimlessness and easy targets for it. 

Useless. Wrathion set aside and began on the other scrolls.

He didn't know how long he read; with the curtains drawn, he couldn't be certain. But the information he consumed were things he already knew: the kypari trees were sacred, that the amber allowed the mantids' communication to sound over different frequencies and across miles of land, and so on and so on. The only thing that _might_ have been relevant was the sonar being used as a weapon, and how it left terrible headaches to those who had survived – but there was nothing of a mortal (or dragon) listening to the frequencies and understanding them, as Wrathion had.

It was when he was reading through the last scroll, beginning to nod off and knowing too well what would happen if he _did,_ when a knock came from the door. Wrathion looked up. “What?”

“Sir, I have your daily report.”

A Blacktalon that was _not_ Left. Wrathion sat up straighter in his bed and neatened the pile of scrolls on his bed. “Come in.”

The agent who appeared was a slim human, tall with dark skin and pale eyes. He held only one piece of parchment in his hands, and gave a nod and a smile as he closed the door behind him.

Wrathion waved a hand for him to continue. 

The agent cleared his throat before he spoke. “Reports show that the revolution in the Barrens is reaching its peak of activity. Vol'jin seems to be the orchestrator – or at least, the leader. I have a list of troops, supplies, and siege plans.”

“Leave it near my table. No, not _that_ one. _That_ one. There. Good. Continue.”

“Alliance forces have also been aiding the Horde with the task.”

“Oh? Interesting.”

“Yes. Our agent in the SI:7 reports that – for the moment – the two are working together.”

Wrathion paused to consider that. The Alliance and the Horde working together was not something unheard of – but it always ended in disaster. Usually. He thought of the Icecrown Citadel, how even then, battling the Lich King, the Horde and the Alliance had fought across the sky. Utter stupidity. Better to have one faction than two bickering ones: less strife and less complications, then. With a flick of his hand, he beckoned the agent to go on.

“The digging in the Vale has halted. We were unable to bypass the guards; there is some kind of magic at work.” The agent paused. “The Blacktalons reported an odd feeling upon getting close to the dig site. Many of the workers were exhausted and somewhat grey in complexion.”

Sha-like. The small thought of the demonic force gave him enough energy to glare his Watcher down. “My best agent defended herself against two paragons. I think my other workers can handle themselves against _magic_.”

“I know, sir, but -”

“Fix it. I cannot plan if I don't know all the pieces.” Even if he had _some_ guess. Coincidences on Azeroth were few and far between. The mantid readying for their God and the unnatural feeling in the Vale... but he needed to know for _sure._ Assumptions were for the foolish. “Anything else?”

“Well, there's been sightings of a rogue bear on the Path. Some of the travelers refuse to come up with such rumors.”

Wrathion snorted. “A _bear_? Likely a hunter's pet. Ignore it. Now. Is there anything _else_ of _importance?_ ”

“The list of those asking about the dragons.”

Wrathion sat back in his throne of pillows. “I can look at them myself. You're dismissed.”

With a puff of smoke, the agent vanished.

Wrathion slouched. His head pounded. Even such a small conversation had left him without the energy he didn't have in the first place. 

Might as well distract himself with this next task. As he ran his hand over his sunken face, Wrathion closed his eyes and tuned to his store of blood magic with some amount of difficulty; where usually such magic flowed and shifted like the matter the magic drew its strength from, now it was sticky, like the blood had dried up. But he managed it, and the images his Blacktalons had sent back to him of those they'd heard talking of black dragons appeared to him.

Wrathion shifted through the visions. They all ranged in clarity, depending on how focused the Blacktalon who had “taken” them had been; some were blurred beyond recognition while others were as sharp as if he himself was standing there. 

He knew some of the faces, which annoyed him: his champions. Half of them looked confused and the other half either looked angry or amused. Wrathion wasn't sure what to make of that. Surely they didn't think he meant to lie about being the last black dragon? He'd thought he'd been telling the truth! Honestly. Mortals were so sensitive.

There, thankfully, was not as many faces as there had been in the recent week. With the Blacktalons tasked to... _persuade_ both Horde and Alliance alike to stop their chatter about the dragons, the reports came less and less. It was a task that had to be done, but one Wrathion did not necessarily like; no brute force was used, of course, against those asking around, but to intimidate his own champions was a bit unfortunate. They'd come to trust him, after all.

Well. At least they'd be reminded on who had the power here and who was giving them it.

Human, human, paladin, hunter, night elf, orc, tauren... the faces blurred together, but Wrathion tried to remember them, something that should have been easy if he was not so _tired_. It was important information to know who was suspicious of all the rumors so he'd know how to deal with them later, if they came back to the Tavern and if they were his champions at all.

Blood elf, human, worgen, draenei, draenei, draenei -

Wrathion paused at that image. Four draenei and a human. How odd. He recognized none of them, so they were obviously not any of his little sparks. The human, a short woman, was looking at him – of course, the Blacktalon at the time – and smiling, but immediately Wrathion saw a maliciousness there.

Such maliciousness seemed... somewhat familiar. Wrathion frowned and stared at her. Strange. He didn't know her, but he felt like he'd seen such a face, such an expression, from somewhere. But where? He never forgot a face. With a slight whisk of mental concentration he bid the image to play, though with the blood magic, the recorded image was even more warped as it moved, and his mind's eye smeared with red in wake of each slight motion of the figures, like a ghost-trail of vapor.

There was no sound. But the short woman was talking and she kept smiling. Wrathion focused harder. Was he simply losing his mind from his lack of sleep, or did this stranger seem _very familiar_ to him in a way he couldn't place? He looked at her oval-shaped face, her dark eyes, her black, chopped hair with bangs which fell hard over her hidden brows. Her skin was lighter than his, but her gear was darker, black on black with silver trimmings to match her large, elaborate necklace.

A face he did and did not recognize.

The moving image ended as the rogue evaporated off. He made it begin again and stared. This was going to drive him insane. Where did he know her from? 

Maybe it was in her eyes. That undertone of malicious intent. An attitude. It was what struck him at first, anyway. Wrathion bit the inside of his cheek and replayed it a third time. He wished this magic was more reliable so he might see the moving images more sharply. 

It was only after he replayed it a fourth time did he realize a sort of dread had begun to curl in his stomach. He _knew_ her face but he had never met her.

Something was wrong here. 

Wrathion stopped the image and, in an instant, connected to the agent's gem that had confronted the group. His mind's eye warped into a swirling, bloody pinpoint until it expanded into a new scene: a dark, cramped inn lit only by a sparse spattering of oily lanterns and the enchanted glow of the drinkers' weapons, strapped to their backs or set on the table. 

Before the Blood Elf could greet him, Wrathion spoke. “What was that human with the draenei asking about?”

_The dragons, sir,_ came her wary reply. _Silkmaster -_

“I don't care about the Silkmaster. What was she asking about _specifically?_ ”

The Blood Elf paused. He could sense her growing anxiety through the gem, like a wave of sour air. He scared her. _I didn't catch the full conversation. I'm sorry, my Prince. She only seemed excited about Sabellian and Alexstrasza._

“She knew their names?”

_No. No, I mean, the silk-makers were talking about them, but without their names. She still seemed excited, because the group left the moment they heard it, which is what made me suspicious._

Wrathion scrunched his eyebrows together as he thought that over. He brought up the woman's face again.

Where...

Something in his head clicked – and suddenly Wrathion found himself in the cave underneath Sik'vess. 

And there was Sabellian, sitting across from him, his orange eyes aglow and the fire from his shoulderpads lighting his face in sharp shadows.

And there it was: the casual maliciousness, the very same the woman had had on her face, as the alchemist stared at him. 

Wrathion pulled away. Reality warped back and he inhaled sharply. He saw the relation in an instant: the curve of her cheekbones, the slope of her brows, the hard angles of her jaw. The similarity was obvious once realized; Wrathion had spent enough loathsome hours with Sabellian to forever remember his damned face. And this woman had his face– one of his children he had so _dearly_ cared for.

_Prince Wrathion_?Came the mutter from his agent.

“Get as _many_ Blacktalons as you can, and be as _quiet_ as you can. Do not give yourself away. Not to mortals, and not to this woman. Find her and bring her here.”

_What of the draenei?_

“I don't care what you do with them. I want _her_. Go! Now!”

Wrathion cut off the connection, and in the same beat, yelled: “ _Left!_ ”

The door jammed open, and Left was there.

“Get my favorite assassin here.”

“I already sent -”

“Then send for them again!” Wrathion sat up in his bed and grinned wildly, his frustration becoming an actual happiness, thrumming in his otherwise numb body. “Those imbeciles came to Pandaria, Left! _Sabellian's children_ , right here! How easy I can end this! If there is one, there _must_ be more.”

Left took in the news with a flat expression. “They cannot all be here, my Prince. How do you know it is one of his?”

“Oh, please. She looks exactly like him! Look in the blood stores, if you'd like.” He waved a dismissive hand; there was absolutely no way he was wrong. This woman – _dragon_ – looked too much alike to Sabellian for it to be a coincidence. And if it was? Well. He'd simply send her on her way with a bit of gold for her troubles. “And no. Clearly not all of them can be here! But I doubt this daughter would come alone.” His grinned widened, and he rubbed his hands together. “Either way, my assassin will do well with this! Once they take care of the nuisance here, then I will send them to Blade's Edge, just as I planned. Perhaps my foolish agents couldn't finish them off, but my little rogue will.” Wrathion hesitated, then laughed darkly. “And we would not want the Dragonmaw to stumble upon them!”

He felt no panic – nothing like he had when he first saw the drake there in Blade's Edge. They had simply made it so much easier for him by splitting themselves up, even if this dragon, this relative, ended up being the only one here. But why be here? To find her father? What a lovely surprise she would have, then!

As Left went away, Wrathion grinned and closed his eyes, the sonar forgotten.

\---

Sabellian was losing his mind in this room. 

He knew he was truly losing his mind to the Old Gods. That was undeniable. Even without the Eye of the Watchers telling him his “corruption levels,” Sabellian could physically feel it creeping up on him like a sludge, weighing every inch of him down in a feeling so familiar it made him ill. 

Going stir-crazy from staying in bed wasn't helping, either. Sabellian was never one to loll around, even when injured. Being confined to cushions and covers for near a week was weighing hard on his sanity, no matter how much pain he was still in.

Nasandria, meanwhile, was on the other side of the room. She had not left, much, after she'd returned when Kalecgos had gone, save to eat or get fresh air. Now, she sat curled up on the singular chair in the room, the book she'd been reading half-finished.

He drummed his fingers at his sides. What he needed was a walk. A _fly_ would be preferable, but he doubted he could strain himself as much. 

Anything to get out of this damned bed and to distract him from what was happening was _preferable_.

Sabellian leaned over and snatched his folded red undershirt, the only article of his regular clothing he'd gotten back, from the bedside table. He tried to put it on: a task more difficult than he thought it would be. Moving his arms up made not only the harpoon wound in his shoulder ache, but also the stab wound burn as his abdomen lengthened. He hissed and went about it gingerly, sliding one arm after the other.

“Father? What are you doing?”

“I am getting out of this room.”

One moment Nasandria was sitting on the opposite end of the room, and then she was right in front of him – blocking him from getting up. Sabellian raised an eyebrow.

“You should stay in bed,” Nasandria suggested. “They said they'd healed the majority of your wounds – so you won't _die_ – but you're still very wea – still very sick.”

_Weak_. Sabellian ground his teeth and slipped on the rest of his shirt, forcing down a flinch as his stab wound tensed again. “I have spent enough time in this bed. Now move.” Looking away, he busied himself with tearing off the plush silk blankets and slowly turning to sit at the side of his bed as every muscle protested with fresh pings of pain. He ignored it, and set his bare feet on the stone cold floor. He had no idea where even his _boots_ were. What could they have done with his damned _boots_? Eaten them? 

Nasandria didn't budge. She bit her lip. 

“Move, girl!”

“They said you shouldn't get up,” Nasandria insisted, glancing back behind her shoulder as if looking for the pandaren monks. Seeing none, she sighed and turned to him. “It might make you worse.”

“Staying in this _bed_ will make me worse.”

“But your hip -”

“Is fine. They may have been slow, but at least the healers were marginally efficient. Now, again – _move_.”

Nasandria hesitated. She looked him up and down. 

“I don't think -”

“ _Move_!” Sabellian snarled as a sudden wave of anger rolled through his body. He could feel his teeth sharpen into points. Nasandria jerked back.

With the added distance between them, Sabellian lurched to his feet until the pain flared in his hip along his stitched wound; he snatched onto the bedpost to keep his balance, and it was the fresh agony that dulled the anger, made him realize it was even there. 

Sabellian rubbed at his eyes as he felt him come back to himself. The heavy feeling in his body throbbed: a reminder. “Listen to me, next time, and I will not snap.”

When Nasandria did not respond, he dropped his hand from his face and looked up. She was a yard away from him, now, and staring; she almost looked afraid. “Was _that_ was that was?” Nasandria asked, then huffed in disbelief. “Are you -? No. Okay. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, take your walk. They left a crutch for you.”

Sabellian opened his mouth to respond, but Nasandria hurried from the room with her head bent and her eyes closed, and she was gone.

Well done; he'd upset her. Normally such a thing was nothing too great – he had yelled at his children many times, in the past – but the _way_ he had upset her worried him. For that briefest of moments he had lost control. He was getting worse. What had his levels been? 86%, or close to it? Again Sabellian ran a hand across his sunken face and squeezed his pointer finger and thumb along his eyes as he remained leaning against the bed post, the entirety of his left side throbbing with pain. 

Finally, Sabellian took a deep breath and dropped his hand from his face. Yes. A walk would help. It might even clear his head, as slim as that chance was. He looked around the room, remembering Nasandria had mentioned a crutch, and saw it propped up against the wardrobe his shirt had been folded on. 

It looked more like a _cane_ than a crutch, Sabellian thought sourly as he glared at the slim brown, sanded _stick_ down. He doubted he needed a _cane_ – he was not that weak - but he reached out and grabbed it, anyway. The rounded top was padded with smooth leather and fit comfortably in his palm. He glared at it. No – he wouldn't need this. Disgusted, he set it on the side of the wall. Sabellian, son of Deathwing and rightful heir to the Black Dragonflight, did not need a _cane_ to _walk_.

But Sabellian was wary when he let go of the bed post. Slowly, he took one step forward – and immediately his injured side went slack, and with it, his left leg. Sabellian grabbed a hold of the side of the wall as his knee buckled underneath him, and ended up leaning hard up against it, instead. His waist pulsed with new pain, and even his closed stab wound grew taut against his skin as he caught his balance. Sabellian hissed and closed his eyes.

He stayed in the position until he could feel his body beyond the pain – and then, begrudgingly, reached blindly for the cane. As he grabbed it, fitting it into his hand, Sabellian mulled over getting back into the bed. He dismissed the thought. It wouldn't help. 

With the cane in his hand, Sabellian opened his eyes and straightened from the wall, leaning the weight his left side refused to hold onto the crutch. It worked. Sabellian scowled. At least no one was here to see him struggle. 

He stared at his feet – and the end of the cane – as he tried to walk again. He felt his left side grow slack a second time, but the cane continued to hold up his weight, there, and his lack of strength. Sabellian's scowl deepened at such weakness. At least, he thought, as he took a third step, Wrathion would be worse than him once he was done maiming and then killing the “prince.”

The thought perked him up just enough to walk with a bit more assurance. 

Sabellian, growing used to the awkwardness of the crutch, made his way out of the room and through the hallway, lined with its blue torches, curiously devoid of heat. This entire damned temple was cold. At least his body radiated heat.

He saw no one until he reached the end of the hallway, startling two pandaren who had been guarding on either side. 

“I am taking a walk,” Sabellian snapped. “Do not reach for your weapons or panic.”

The guard on the left began to protest, but Sabellian gave him a dark look, and the pandaren nearly sunk back into the wall, and Sabellian went on with his walk.

After that, Sabellian met little resistance. The hallway led out into a great domed room, yards long and decorated with simple but elegant designs of blue-grey rock, silver, and bronze along the thick pillars lining the wall and the stoned floor beneath his bare feet. Colder, here, than in his room, the monks that sparred lightly in the arena before him seemed undeterred by the chill that led in from the archway open to the sprawling temple grounds outside.

Many of the practicing monks stared as he walked, but were quick to look away. Out of fear, he presumed. He'd destroyed their buildings and killed some of them. At least Sabellian was glad for their ignoring of him; he hugged close to the wall as he rounded around the room. Every step was pain, and if he lurched or tripped, he did not want any of these mortals to see.

The fighting of the monks was doing nothing to help clear his head; if anything, the _clanks_ and _clonks_ of the wood staves clashing against one another made him even more frazzled. He considered ending his painful walk and turning back when he realized he was nearly at the entrance; cold air might slap some sense into him.

As if weather could slap back Y'shaarj. Sabellian huffed in a bitter sort of amusement but continued on all the same until he reached the great opened arch. 

The cold hit him instantly. He flinched at the chill until the heat of his body accustomed and warmed him. 

The frigid air woke him up, a bit. Sabellian blinked hard and looked down at the temple grounds as he leaned up against the side of the archway. It was a cloudy day; he had little idea as to what time it was. But he saw the damage, even in the dim light. The damage _he_ had left, though it looked in the middle of repair. The smaller temple across the bridge, right in front of him, had its western wall crumbled, though even as he watched, mortals were helping to patch it up. Some rolled barrels of newly cut stone while others situated the blocks in the pagoda's missing wall. To the west, the pagoda he'd utterly destroyed when he'd tossed Kalecgos into it was swept away. Now there was a steady framework; harder work than the other open building, but the work that had been done was impressive for such a short time. Sometimes, mortals _were_ resourceful.

“Already up, I see.”

Sabellian glanced down. Walking from the far eastern temple was Xuen, and a trail of icy vapor followed him in his wake – and though the tiger was not looking at him, but at the Temple's opening where Sabellian leaned, Sabellian could feel the intense focus of the Celestial shift onto him, like a weight upon his head. 

“You have sharp eyes,” Sabellian said, glaring. He remembered too well being beat down by this animal.

Xuen chuckled, a deep and rumbling sound in his chest, and raised his head as he began up the steps, forcing Sabellian to look away as the cold emanating from the tiger's body stung at his eyes and nose. His draconic heat was quick to mask the minor, but annoying, chill. 

“Indeed,” Xuen rumbled from behind him. Still the Celestial's focus was upon him. Some part of Sabellian grew uneasy from it. “And with them, I see you grow sick.”

Sabellian glowered out at the temple grounds. Even the talking tiger knew he was growing worse. He ran a hand over his face, felt the deep etches underneath his eyes and the sharpness of his cheekbones, before turning to look at Xuen. The Celestial loomed in the entranceway to the Temple, the entirety of his presence taking up the passage. Now that he did not walk, his vapor curled around his form, whispering around him like breath in freezing air.

“Sick,” Sabellian repeated, and stopped himself from scowling at the croak in his voice. He tried to clear his throat but even then he could still feel it stick and scratch. “And you know with what, I assume?”

“Your father's sickness.” 

Sabellian paused. “You know of that?”

Xuen hummed. He sat – promptly blocking Sabellian from going back into the Temple. “Pandaria was shrouded, yet never blind.”

What _was_ Xuen, then, Sabellian wondered? He eyed the beast silently. An Ancient of some sort? 

“Then you know there is nothing to stop it.”

It was Xuen's turn to pause and study him. His striped tail flicked back and forth. “Yes.”

What wonderful help. Sabellian squinted, then looked away, back at the Temple. He wondered if the tiger was upset with him over the killing of the monks. Probably. 

“You are doing little to help yourself.”

Sabellian glanced back, his glower returning. Xuen remained where he was, sitting casually at the entrance. Despite Sabellian's guess, the tiger had no air of anger or did not speak with a teasing, malicious tone. He simply stared at him. 

“What?”

“You are doing little to help yourself,” the Celestial repeated. 

“There is not much I _can_ do,” Sabellian growled. A headache was beginning to pound behind his eyes. “I will hope the stupid Blue will find the key in the artifact, and try to keep up my defenses as I have while I wait.” A gust of cold wind blew against his face, as sharp as a slap, and he turned away from the open air, mood darkening into an even deeper pit. “No potion nor spellwork will halt this corruption.”

Xuen cocked his head, his two fluffed ears perking. “Do you recall the advice I gave you, there in the snow? Power and strength is as different -”

“As sun and moon. I wasn't deaf. That has little to do with anything.”

“It is what might help you.”

Sabellian was tiring of all this cryptic nonsense. In a snap, he said: “Then _explain_ , White Tiger.”

“You hold on to your anger and hatred,” Xuen rumbled, sliding to the ground to lay on his belly. Even in the open, relaxed position, he continued to emanate strength and grace, his head held high and his tail curled around his hind legs. “It rolls off of you like the lightning of a stormcloud.”

“I am not corrupted by the Sha any longer.”

“No. Perhaps not.” Xuen paused to study him before continuing, and again Sabellian felt the push of the Celestial's focus on his mind, almost physical. “But you cling to the emotions which gave rise to it inside your heart.”

Sabellian raised a brow. If anything, he felt _annoyed_ and _tired_ , not angry or hateful. “I think you're mistaken.”

“No. I am not.” Xuen flexed his claws and looked behind his broad shoulders. He was too tall, even laying down, for Sabellian to see beyond, into the Temple, and what the tiger stared at. But whatever it was, Xuen gave a satisfied rumble and turned again to Sabellian. “The most dangerous emotions are those which lurk deep.”

More cryptic words. Sabellian was beginning to wonder if he could somehow round around the tiger to get back to his room; his waist had begun to pain beyond a bearable level.

“If you wish to truly help yourself, you must let go of your anger,” Xuen continued when Sabellian said nothing. 

“And by stop myself from being _angry,_ it will somehow halt losing my mind?” He asked, unsure if he was supposed to be incredulous or amused by the thought. _Apologies, Y'shaarj, I will not be angry for you. Move along_. An excellent idea. It would have the Old God skirting quickly away from him, surely. 

Xuen flicked his ear. Sabellian's headache was getting worse.

“It will not halt it, but it will stall it. Such emotions are poisoning you.”

Sabellian ground his teeth. This annoyance was quickly becoming aggravation. To think he could be lectured was something short of stupidity. 

“I have every right to be angry.” He went to cross his arms, but paused when the tight flesh along his wounded shoulder grew tauter. His hands fell to his sides. 

“Because of the young prince,” Xuen rumbled. Something passed along the tiger's eyes, some strange emotion, but it was gone before Sabellian had time to discern what Xuen was thinking. “I know of such transgressions.”

Was this Celestial omniscient? He could not know what had happened at Sik'vess – or why Sabellian was even _here_ , in Azeroth. Did he speak generally of Wrathion? 

“He has killed my children,” Sabellian finally said, doing nothing to hide his disdain. “I believe that calls for _anger_ , despite whatever 'transgressions' he has done, besides.”

Xuen paused. He gave a deep sigh. “I see, though I am unsurprised. Wrathion had many difficulties understanding my test. He humored me, as you do, but I thought my blessing might have swayed him onto another path.” The tiger's tail slid back and forth, sweeping away the falling snow gathering along the entranceway. “It is difficult to change the nature of a thing.”

So Wrathion had met this Celestial. Before Sabellian had time to reply, Xuen stopped moving his tail and cocked his head at him. “But what of you? You, too, are a black dragon. You protect home and family. Noble causes, and just. But do you do so out of vengeance, or to guard your children?”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow. Snow was beginning to fall, but thankfully, it melted a foot away from him, so he was not covered in dripping chill; the result was a circle of water on the floor around him, like some sort of demonic circle. How fitting, he thought, given the grim circumstances. “Killing him would satisfy my vengeance and ensure the protection of my family,” he answered. Xuen smiled.

“Ah – but you have avoided my question. What is it you _truly_ want, son of the Earthwarder? To exact such vengeance, or to protect your family?”

Sabellian stared. Had he not just answered the question? Both causes were the same. 

“I am protecting my family,” Sabellian said slowly, squinting up at the tiger. 

“I do not argue that – and nor do I argue that anger is not necessary. Controlled, anger can be a fuel to strength, as long as there is cause for it.”

“There _is_ a cause for it!” Sabellian snarled, anger flaring in his chest so readily it was like a match to oil, as it had with Nasandria. 

“Tell me: why has Wrathion killed your children?”

Sabellian deflated as quickly as he had erupted. He hesitated, unsure about the change of topic. “He kills because of our corruption,” he explained gruffly, “though it does not manifest on Outland. We did nothing; our only crime was living, and proving him wrong. If you call me _hateful_ , then be sure to call the ' _prince_ ' the same.”

Xuen hummed, a sound low in his throat. “So the Prince, too, has a cause, as you do.” Sabellian began to bristle, but Xuen continued. “I know of his familicide. I understand he did so to protect this world from those who could not have been saved.” He nodded to Sabellian. “Such as your father.”

“My family had no need for saving on Outland,” Sabellian lied – for did they not? Was not that the point of keeping Wrathion alive, there at the Tavern, so he could try to return with his brood safely to Azeroth, away from the drifting chunks of a broken planet? - trying not to scowl as again the readied anger crept up in his chest. “We did nothing. It is out of blind hatred and cowardice the boy killed my children, and hoped to kill me.”

Xuen nodded. “Indeed, his cause has been... misguided, as you say, by hatred, and perhaps fear of the unknown.” The tiger frowned and folded his bulky forelegs closer together. “As so many causes often are. Fear and hatred together... mm. A deadly and dark combination. I fear the Black Prince, despite my test, never understood that such things could make him blind to his own cause.” He glanced back at Sabellian. “But it _is_ a cause. Tell me, then: are you not like him, in this way?”

“I am nothing like that brat.”

“But are you not? You both have causes. You kill to protect. But you, too, hate, as he does. You hope to kill him, and to make him suffer – as he made you suffer. Do not hide your wishes – I can see them upon your face, and in your heart. Did I not say it rolls off of you so readily?”

Sabellian snarled. “I am killing for my children! If I can make the boy _suffer,_ then all the better for it!” How easily he remembered those dark thoughts as he lifted from Sik'vess: to blind, maim, and torture Wrathion would bring him not only vengeance served but great pleasure. The suddenness of the thoughts made him jerk back, and his head began to pound worse than it had been. Xuen stared at him, and for the briefest of moments, Sabellian thought he heard the tiger begin to growl.

“And so you kill to gain _power_ over your enemy! _Strength_ is pausing to understand your foe before coming to a just resolution, and doing what is right, no matter the personal repercussions. _Power_ – power is killing savagely, without thought, for revenge, no matter how great the initial cause. Which one are you?”

“Do you stupidly suggest I stop trying to kill Wrathion? He will destroy us if I do nothing.”

Xuen relaxed; Sabellian had not realized the tiger had been taut around his shoulders. “No. Why killing is the greatest price, sometimes, it is needed – as it was needed with your father, and relatives. I advise you to think over the Black Prince's reasons for his own actions, and then yours. Collect yourself, and understand the mind of your foe.” He rumbled. “If not, you will sink deeper in your obsession with revenge. Such a thing is what pushed you off the edge, made you lose yourself to the Sha, and what is inviting the Old Ones into your heart. It sparks righteous anger into hatred, sparks strength into unthinking power.” Xuen paused to look out at the temple grounds, and Sabellian thought of the buildings he had destroyed in such rage. The tiger looked back at him. “As I told the Black Prince: strength used in the service of others is twice as powerful as strength spent on our foes. Perhaps he did not take my advice to heart, but you might.” Xuen stretched out his forelegs, then slid up to his feet in one swift movement. “If you realize the priority is your children, not watching the boy die by your hand... then you will have true strength - greater strength - to slow your corruption and face again your enemy. Not to crush him – but to protect those who you hold dear.”

Sabellian said nothing, but he found he could not longer keep eye contact with the Celestial. He looked to the temple grounds as Xuen had. The snow had stopped falling. Was he not protecting his children? Of course he was. He'd said as much. It was why he had come here.

But it was undeniable he wanted Wrathion to suffer, as he'd wanted Gruul's children to suffer as his own had; watching them fall, bleeding and gutted and missing chunks of flesh was a wonderful memory.

Watching _them_ die had been the end goal in that act of vengeance. Was watching Wrathion die the ultimate goal here, too? But was not having the boy die the same as protecting his children? If they were different, as Xuen suggested, what was the priority: revenge or his family? Sabellian grimly realized he wasn't sure – for to him, they were the same. He ran a hand over his face and sighed hard; he was tired. 

“I will give you my blessing,” Xuen rumbled, and Sabellian looked to the tiger. Xuen remained in the same position. “It will shield you, but for only so much time. I cannot save you. You must save yourself.” And before Sabellian could find a suitable reply the Celestial opened his toothed mouth and breathed, and a gust of blue, iced air swept over the whole of Sabellian's body. He flinched as a sudden pain tensed in his mind, as if something was pulling back while his body remained still, but it stopped as quickly as it had began to be replaced by a calmness Sabellian had not felt since coming to Azeroth. His body, too, felt steeled, and his wounds ached less. He breathed out lowly and relaxed. 

Xuen watched him. Sabellian cleared his throat. “I am going to lay down,” he grumbled, and Xuen nodded. Sabellian would have glared at the flash of amusement in the tiger's eyes had his mood not been lifted by the blessing.

“Indeed. I wish you luck.” Xuen moved to the side as Sabellian trudged past him. 

_Luck_. Sabellian thought he would need more than that.

\---

Finally – _finally_ – Kalecgos had gotten the Eye to work.

It had taken a day, but after much frustration and even more insistence, the Eye had stopped shutting down for him.

He'd been spurned by the urgency of the situation, he knew; in truth, Sabellian's bullying had affected him little, and had only made him aggravated. Honestly, he had not retorted back, wary such an argument would flare Sabellian's ramping corruption.

But the black dragon's words had struck a cord in him. Kalecgos was never one to sit back and let things pass as they would, no matter the inevitability of the outcome. The death of a Flight was a feeling he knew well: the hopelessness, the despair. The loneliness. Sabellian was no friend to him – his wounds still ached, mending a week after he'd been thrown about by the black dragon – but he did feel for the Dragonflight as a whole. He had not been bluffing when he had spoken to Nasandria of the interest in a purified black dragon brood. An entire culture, washed away by the whispers of the Old Gods, reborn planets away! It had been both from an intellectual and empathetic standpoint he had labored over the Eye. If Wrathion could be made, could not others? 

He'd had little else to do, at any rate. Abandoning his post at the Wall had been unsightly, but news had been slow – at least from the pandaren factions. The energy had shifted from Pandaria to Kalimdor, from what Jaina had told him a week prior. 

But now, Kalecgos could put his work to good use. It was time to turn on the Eye and make it tell him what it could do.

He sat in his chilly room, the fireplace and lanterns unlit – as cold as he liked it. The curtains were loosely drawn; through the slips, the window shone, ice cracking along its surface despite the climbing sun, obscured by clouds. Dark, yes, but Kalecgos found he could focus more with little light. He was used to sunless days in Coldarra, when the winds would scream and the snows would fall. 

“Alright,” Kalecgos murmured, scooting his chair up close to his desk. The Eye was rolled up against his pile of parchment, filled with his notes and missives. It glinted at him. “Let's try this out.”

He grabbed it and held it aloft. Spending so much time on it, he found the _on_ button with ease rather than grope around for it, and as he clicked it, the Eye spun to life. As it had so many times before, it sprung up and activated, until its golden sheen bounced off the gritty walls of the room.

It began to scan, its thin light beaming from its core, when Kalecgos spoke in a clear, demanding tone, all in the Titan's lilting language. 

“Override initial system boot-up.”

Simple as that, the Eye whirled – and then the stream of light changed. The tip of the beam expanded and warped and curved to become a three-dimensional, shining projection that looked as if it was made of stardust: the slowly spinning globe of Azeroth.

It did nothing else. Kalecgos hesitated to think over his next move. Say the wrong thing, and he risked the Eye shutting off. It had done so, before, the last time he had tried some two hours before, and had refused to turn on again until now. Obviously a fail-safe against unidentified users. Still annoying. 

But what to ask? Kalecgos ran a hand through his hair and eyed the globe. How could he reorginate a _reorigination_ machine? The thought was ludicrous, but he had to try.

“Show options,” he tried. Last time, he'd brazenly asked it what to do about corruption, and the question had frazzled it.

“LOADING..... OPTIONS loaded.”

The globe of Azeroth glowed and little sparks like stars began to rotate outwards like the planet's moons. But these sparks stopped to hover in mid-air, and began to transform until a list of runes of the Titan language. Kalecgos skimmed and translated them instantly. 

Experimental Reorigination Projects. Stability. Contact. Archive.

Well, it was best to start at the beginning. “Experimental Reorigination Projects, please.”

The Eye gave a cheery beep, and the runes dissolved. The globe spun until the craggy outline of the Eastern Kingdoms was closest to him.

“PROJECTS.... loaded.”

The sparks which had become the runes unfolded from the surface of the Eastern Kingdoms. Kalecgos watched them rise and warp. To his astonishment, the balls of light were beginning to form into holographs of creatures, big and small alike; some had to merge together to create the larger animals.

Where was once only the globe was now a host of animals when the sparks had finished forming. Some were common: a large buzzard flapped in mid-air and a wild boar with a mane of quills pawed as it hovered and circled on its base. Some were not so common. There was a hunchbacked trogg whose back was full of spikes, an Earthen, and – a dragon.

Kalecgos stared at the dragon. Like the others, the hologram rotated around like it was being showcased, and even if the only colors in the three-dimensional creatures were the white-blue of the sparks, Kalecgos knew it was a Black Dragon: its large, proud horns were curved like a ram's, and curved fins sprouted from its forehead and slid all the way down its spine to end at the barbed tail. Of course Black Dragons could look different, but the curved horns were almost always a sign of Neltharion's brood. 

But Kalecgos didn't recognize this dragon. He studied it as the Eye hummed before recalling that Sabellian had told him this artifact had created Wrathion from the bodies of three corpses. This couldn't be...?

“I'd like some information on the dragon, please.”

The Eye beeped, and the other creatures disappeared until only the dragon remained. The sparks which had made up the other beings merged in with the remaining hologram until the wyrm tripled in size and in detail. There wasn't much life to it; its eyes were two pinpoints of stars. 

“Species: BLACK DRAGON. Bloodline: NELTHARION, empowered by KHAZ'GOROTH.”

More mini-stars split up from the globe and formed into a miniature of Deathwing next to the larger model of the unnamed Black Dragon. But with only a quick glance, Kalecgos realized it was not Deathwing, but Neltharion: his scales were intact, his body no longer covered by heavy plate, and he stood tall and straight and very, very proud. Kalecgos grew uneasy and looked away. He'd seen Neltharion as a proto-drake, the beast before the protector before the monster, but seeing the fallen Aspect as his true former self made Kalecgos... uncomfortable. It made him think about what could have been; more than once he'd woken in the night after dreams of the writhing, molten mass in the Maelstrom, more element than dragon.

“PROCESSING......... information loaded. Subject reoriginated from multiple subjects expunged of Azerothian OLD GOD corruption.”

So this _was_ Wrathion. Just.... the adult version. Interesting. Maybe he could use the information here to try to pry what he could do for Nasandria's family, if anything...

“More information, please.”

The miniature of Neltharion split to form a proto-drake, large and bulky.

“DRAGONS originated from PROTO-DRAKES. Proto-drakes evolved into dragons after Necessary Intervention. Proto-drakes -”

“Wait, no, I know this. Stop. I meant more information about the reorigination of Wrathion.”

“Subject unknown.”

“The dragon.”

“NELTHARION, Aspect of the Earth, tasked with the protection of Azeroth. The -”

“No, no. I mean the – the subject.”

Pause. “Query?”

“Would he have been able to have been... reoriginated without separate bodies?”

A longer pause, and then the Eye gave a beep. As far as Kalecgos was concerned, it sounded displeased. “Rearrange question. Query?”

“Would Azerothian Old God corruption be able to be purged any other way?”

“Negative.”

Kalecgos's shoulders slouched. It hadn't even hesitated. “There's no other options available?”

“OPTIONS: reorigination or extermination.”

“Would reorigination be viable even without... separate organic material?” Kalecgos asked, remembering Nasandria's missing arm and already knowing the answer.

“Negative. This reorigination would result in the malfunction of the organism.”

Kalecgos leaned back in his seat and folded his hands over his stomach. He set his lips in a thin line as he stared the hologram of the adult Wrathion down. What else could he ask?

“Would this organic material need to be the same as the subject's matieral?”

“Correct.”

Well. Perhaps this thing had borders where Nefarian had had none. He supposed this machine wouldn't combine human with dragon to create drakonid monstrosities. That was... good.

But it didn't bode well for Nasandria's family. He'd thought, maybe, if there'd been no other way to purge the corruption _but_ reorigination, they might use other flesh from things _not_ from their dead kin... seeming as there was no other black dragons around but their own brood. And Wrathion. Perhaps a crocolisk could have worked...

Even then – reorigination was a subject even Kalecgos knew little about. For example: was Wrathion at all like the three dragons he'd been made out of? Were all three individuals' traits and strengths and weaknesses meshed together when the Eye had pulled them apart and stitched them back together again? Or had they become an entirely separate entity, disappearing in the new consciousness? The risk this Eye poised... even if they were able to use _organic material_ , would they be the same dragon, after?

“Why is there no other options besides the two?”

“Fetching information.....” It beeped. “Azerothian Old Gods known for binding to the FLESH of organic material. Major difficulties in extracting the corruption besides forcible separation or full extermination.”

That made sense. The Old Gods had an affinity for cursing flesh – or creating it. 

The information didn't help him, though. It was what he had thought: the Titans had to have had this as a last resort, to be so gruesome. Kalecgos wouldn't be able to rewire it; nothing he did would _work_ , if what the Eye said was true. And he had no doubts it _was_ true. Had not the Dragonflights tried everything to cure the Black Dragonflight of their sickness? The purge hadn't come easy (though admittedly, many dragons, at that point, were eager to slaughter their corrupted kin). And Wrathion had been made by this process and this process alone. _.._

It was hopeless. The only option the Black Dragons had was to stay _away_ from Azeroth. But how long would the chunks of Outland remain? What then? 

Kalecgos huffed. Would he give up so easily? But what else could he do? He lurched in his chair and touched the hologram of Wrathion, only for it to shine and twist. From different parts of the dragon's body split separate sparks, and suddenly there was not one but four dragons in front of him, all very different. Oh – the dragons who had made him. Kalecgos waved them away, unnerved by the thought.

“Take me to the main menu,” the Blue grumbled, leaning again in his chair as he ran a hand over his face. _You've done harder things_ , he thought to himself as the hologram of Wrathion and Neltharion merged back into the globe and the runes returned to float around its side. 

But he realized he had not. He'd failed and succeeded, half and half; he'd lost Aveena to the Sunwell and Tarecgosa to his assassins, but had been chosen as Aspect and had... somewhat... used the artifact to see the beginnings of the Aspects.

Somewhat. Not like he'd want to do it again. He still had headaches of shifting into Malygos's past consciousness with his own.

Trying to purge an entire race of their ten-thousand year corruption, something no one else had been able to do, was not going to work. And he knew it.

“Power off,” Kalecgos said. The Eye snapped close and its iridescent glow faded within a blink, and it floated to land on his desk. He'd been interested in the “Contact” section, but he supposed he'd check it once he was in a better mood. 

He glanced at the mirror, leaning against his desk. It was around the size of his head and looked pearly in the dimly-lit room. Jaina wouldn't know, either. And she probably wouldn't want to be asked; she had enough on her schedule. The times Kalecgos actually got to speak with her, she was tense, tired, and very frustrated. Best to leave her alone on this.

That reminded him – she'd said something about strange anomalies on the coasts of the Jade Forest. Something about reports of portals there going haywire and refusing to stabilize. He'd told her those days before he had not heard anything of it, and he had _planned_ to research... but. Here he was. With a confusing artifact. Again.

“You're not going to be able to do it, are you?”

Kalecgos jumped. He turned, pupils narrowed to slits, until he realized the person in his doorway was only Nasandria, and he relaxed. 

Up until he realized what she had said, at least. He rubbed the back of his neck. Nasandria had her eyes lidded, and dark stains circled her eyes. She leaned against the door frame, but her otherwise casual air was broken with the way she was looking at him: disbelieving and not at all hopeful.

She'd see right through him if he lied; there was no _point_ in lying, anyway. “No. I won't be able to.” Kalecgos sat up straighter in his seat and turned to face her fully. “With what little its told me... I think staying on Outland is your only option.”

Nasandria stared at him. For the briefest of moments she frowned, and a twinge of hopelessness creased at her eyes. She bit her lip. “And what about my father?” 

Oh. Yes. Sabellian was in the worst position of them all, right now. How long would it be until the corruption set in? Soon, he supposed... Kalecgos regretted taking off the collar.

“Well, I'm not sure. I -”

“I know he's losing it,” Nasandria interrupted. She swallowed hard. “He won't tell me, but I knew when he used the earth he was done for. And he can't sleep. I'm used to him yelling but he really snapped at me today.”

“What? What do you mean about the earth?”

“He never uses it,” Nasandria explained. She was no longer looking at him but at the opposite wall, and her hand gripped hard onto her remaining left upper arm. “I know that the 'Sha' was corrupting him, or whatever, but he _never_ uses it.”

Kalecgos paused. _Be truthful_. “The Sha is from the Old God that came from this continent.” He continued despite Nasandria's face falling. “I think what would be best for you all is to go to Outland. There's nothing this Eye can do for you – but I think you know that.” 

Nasandria scowled. “Don't you think I've thought about going home? I've wanted to go home since my brother died!” She dropped her hand from her other arm and it clenched into a fist. “And do you somehow _think_ my father can make the nearly week long trip over the sea to get to the Black Portal? He's too weak and _I_ knowhe doesn't have that much time left until he goes mad.” She made a frustrated growl deep in her chest and hurriedly rubbed at her eyes as she looked away. “He'd never make it. And he won't leave.”

Kalecgos hadn't thought about how long the trip would be. How could he miss such a glaring thing? He rubbed his hands together as he thought, the chill of his thick gloves warming between his palms. 

“I'll try to figure something out,” he said, and glanced over at his desk where the two halves of the enchanted link remained. Kalecgos would have to get it back on Sabellian. 

“Maybe if you went and killed Wrathion for us, my father would want to leave in the first place.”

“I don't think that's the best option.”

“It was a joke,” Nasandria admitted flatly. Again she ran her hand over her eyes, and then she laughed, a choked, unhappy sound. “Wrathion killed my sister and we came to kill him. And now my brother is dead, my family was attacked at home, and my father is going crazy.” She glanced at her missing arm and hastily looked away, to glare right into Kalecgos's eyes, her glower searching, angry. “Tell me how that's fair?”

Kalecgos shifted. “It does not sound fair.”

Nasandria snorted. She shifted in her lean against the doorway, shuffling her weight from foot to foot. “I know things aren't ever fair, I guess. But I thought we'd be fine, this time. We'd suffered enough, you know?” She glanced at the Eye. “The best part, though, is that I got that _thing_ for nothing. My arm is gone for nothing.” She rubbed at her remaining upper arm. “If my father had just killed the brat at the inn, none of this would have happened.”

“Why didn't he?” Kalecgos asked. He knew little background on this entire struggle, if anything. All he knew was that Sabellian wanted Wrathion dead and vice versa, which had somehow culminated to now. 

“My father got the _bright idea_ that Wrathion could tell us how to fix our corruption,” Nasandria grumbled. “Well, _there_ it is.” She gestured to the Eye, sitting on Kalecgos's desk. “Hacking off our limbs.”

Kalecgos frowned. Something about this talk of corruption was bothering him, and, after a moment of silence, he spoke. “Nasandria,” he began carefully, “have you felt any pull of the Old Ones, yourself?”

Nasandria shifted again. “No. Why?”

“It's simply curious, to me,” Kalecgos admitted. Outside, the wind began to howl. Another blizzard stirring, perhaps. “I would think with such prolonged exposure, you might be feeling... effects.”

Nasandria stared at him. For a moment, Kalecgos thought he may have overstepped his boundaries, but then she sighed.

“When the artifact,” Nasandria began, turning her eyes to the Eye again, “took my arm, a sort of...” She took a breath; the drake was growing paler in the face. Kalecgos feared she would be sick, but then Nasandria breathed again and continued. “My arm began to ooze with this black gunk.”

Odd, but then Kalecgos remembered what the Eye had said – how the Old Gods bound their corruption to the flesh. It made sense. He began to wonder, then – surely an Old God could not bind itself to a soul, the spirit of a thing? The brain was organic, indeed, but the soul... well, he was getting ahead of himself. A soul could be smothered by corruption, and could be released only in death. He was reminded of the mogu, how they bound unwilling souls to their war golems. Not quite useful to the conversation.

“Well, that's it, then. It must have taken out some of your corruption. I'm sure it's given you a bit more leeway to guarding yourself. Honestly, I'm surprised your father lasted so long, especially as Deathwing's true son. I suppose the Sha corruption must have been the final piece.”

Nasandria did not look taken aback by his guess; if anything, she looked flat-faced, like she'd already known. 

“It doesn't matter about me, though,” Nasandria rumbled. “It's my father who's in trouble.” She looked at him, and her yellowed eyes grew sharp. “Maybe the Eye can't do it, but you can think of something. You killed my grandfather. You were the Aspect of Magic. You can do something, can't you?” The longer she spoke the more insistent her words had become, and again there was the desperation, the crinkling of hopelessness in her face.

Kalecgos hesitated. _No, I cannot do anything,_ he thought, but did not say. It was clear, with what the Eye had said, that there was little he could do... perhaps he could try to stall Sabellian's corruption? He might be able to manage _that_.

“I'll try. But I can make no promises.”

Nasandria nodded, and then she was gone.

\---

When the blizzard had ended and Vaxian and the nether-drakes had crept out of the cave, the whole of the mountains had disappeared beneath the snow. Any landmark that would have existed was now swept away in the white sheen which spread out in all directions, shiny, almost blinding, in the late-morning sun.

They hadn't waited for anything to thaw off; they didn't have the time for that, and Vaxian had doubted it would _thaw_ anytime soon in these chilly winds. 

But it was not the lack of landmark that worried Vaxian as they flew into their second hour of flying; it was the fact that Sabellian's scent had been lost.

It had been faint enough to begin with, when they'd passed the side of the first mountain in the range and Vaxian had caught it along the rock. It had been the first clue, and thus the one he had leaped on the quickest – but here, in the cold range, battered by shearing winds and blizzards, Vaxian was beginning to think he'd made a mistake. Had the scent led to the east, away from the range, and not _into_ the range? If only he had some heat to warm his scales, rather than this cold; maybe then he could think straight. The sun from before was now dim, hidden by clouds. He would have taken the blinding snow rather than the colder air.

Another half hour passed. Vaxian smelled nothing. He could feel the tiring of the nether-drakes' behind him; the flight in the blizzard had been difficult, and had sapped their strength. Even Vaxian ached.

Vaxian was about to suggest a stop when the wind shifted, and he caught a faint scent: dragon.

He hovered in mid-air, startling those behind him, as he looked around, trying desperately to hold onto the scent. 

“What is it?” Kathas asked.

“Black dragon,” Vaxian responded hastily. There it was – coming from the western wind. He folded his wings and dove. The air whistled around him; the world became a smear of grey and white. When he was about to hit the side of a mountain, Vaxian snapped out his wings and tore away. The scent was closer, but still far.

Trusting the drakes to follow, Vaxian quickened his flight. It wasn't the smell of his father, but it was, undeniably, Black Dragon. The smell of deep fire in these mountains was like a beacon. 

It had to be one of his siblings, then, if it was not Sabellian. But why be separate?

After many twists and turns, dodging cliffs hidden underneath snow and jumping over and under outcrops, Vaxian nearly passed the cave.

Just as he was about to fly past, with the scent as close as it was going to be, he saw a flash of dark grey and black: a large opening, halfway hidden by the snow. A cavern. He halted and turned back. This was it – the scent came from here. He landed hard on a cliff that led to the outcrop of the cave, panting, and the drakes landed behind him.

The cave had a large, yawning opening; fresh icicles dripped from the top, toothed like Vaxian's own maw. Snow from the blizzard had piled up along the outcrop leading into the opening, and was so high it reached to the middle of Vaxian's forelegs as he trudged along.

The smell of dragon grew as he walked. But it was not fresh, not burning of smoke and deep earth – instead Vaxian smelled burning and char, a smell he, with much regret, knew well.

But still Vaxian walked, mindful of his pace as the netherdrakes slogged behind him in the snow, melting from his scales – and when he rounded the entrance, Vaxian saw the skeleton.

It was deeper into the cave mouth, and its charred bones glinted in the light that managed to reach into the bowels of the large cavern. Laying on its side, one of its wings, fragile in appearance in death, was tucked close to its body while the other sprawled along the icy floor. Immediately Vaxian saw the snapped neck, how the drake's head was skewered at an awkward angle.

The netherdrakes murmured their alarm behind him as they saw it. Vaxian sighed hard through his nostrils, quivering from the chill. He looked the corpse over. It was not Nasandria; the body was too small and the double-horns too big. Talsian, then: his clutch-brother.

“Oh,” Lathas murmured, nosing his way closer into the cave, but keeping his distance from Vaxian. “That's one of yours?”

Vaxian nodded. Again he sighed and made his way to his sibling, his great claws clinking against the glistening black floor. The wind began to howl.

“My brother, Talsian,” Vaxian announced, his rumbling voice rebounding off the cave's sides. He grew close enough to loom above the skull. The hollow sockets stared through him. A coldness had collected in Vaxian's chest, colder than the winds of the blizzard. 

“I'm sorry,” Okelaka called from behind him. 

A strange phrase. It was not her fault, or any of theirs. Vaxian looked the skeleton over, noting the charred bones, blackened and gritty. Talsian had been burned properly, at least, and the knowledge his clutch-sibling had been given rest through the ritual flame was enough to make Vaxian relax, if only somewhat. But by who? His father, no doubt. He eyed the snapped neck. It took great force to twist a dragon's throat; the neck was heavily muscled and the scales hard. The Prince was a child, was he not? Vaxian frowned. That did not add up.

Talsian's death did not bode well, either. He recalled what Samia had said the agent they'd killed in the arakkoa's forest report; how his father had little, if any, time left. Vaxian had thought it a well-said bluff, used to spurn them. He knew such a guess was unlikely, now, staring into his dead brother's face. If something – someone – had managed to kill Talsian, who was nearly a grown dragon like himself... he worried for Nasandria. The mortal had said nothing of his clutch-sister. They had obviously underestimated this Black Prince. But how? What could a child do?

Vaxian shook his head. It was disrespectful to think such things in front of his brother's rest. He moved away, giving himself ample room, and exhaled smoke from his nose; in the same moment, he arched his back and bowed low to the ground until his snout touched the cold floor. He waited until the ground had warmed fully from his heat to rise again. 

His respects given, he turned to the netherdrakes.

“Let's look around the cavern, and see if we might be able to find what happened here,” Vaxian said. Though the wind was picking up, the cave was angled just so, allowing it to shear across the face of the entrance without entering; Vaxian did not have to raise his voice above it. 

“It reeks of mortal,” Okelaka murmured. 

“It smells faint to me,” Kathas chirped, trotting forward to delve deeper into the cave, though she made a large loop and slowed around the skeleton. She disappeared around the curve, the ribbons of her nether fading behind her trail. 

“I'll stand guard,” Ralfas said. Vaxian nodded and glanced at Okelaka, who had not moved and was frowning out at the cave entrance. 

“Is there something wrong?” 

Okelaka shook her head, but the movement looked unsure, unconvincing. “Nothing.” She turned back smiled at him, her white eyes glinting with the snow, and Vaxian cleared his throat and hurriedly looked away. 

“Your imagination, I'm sure,” rumbled Lathas, sniggering. “Ralfas, do you remember when she mistook our own crystals for a void terror?”

“You looked at the wrong time,” Okelaka insisted, fluffing her wings out, flustered.

“Shut up, Lathas. Go do something useful,” Ralfas grunted, never looking away from the entrance of the cave. 

Vaxian slid back. The other netherdrakes fanned out, save for Ralfas, and their investigation began. 

Indeed, Vaxian could smell mortal as Okelaka had, but faint, very faint, frozen here because of the lack of wind to wash it away. He paused as Lathas moved past him, who slunk through one of the two passageways in the back of the cave that led off into the deeper recesses, to scent at the ground. Something there along the wall had caught his attention.

The scent of mortal – human, he discerned, barely – and the iron, charred smell of dragon blood remained up along this small section of the wall. Perhaps one of the Black Prince's agents and Talsian? But it was not Talsian's scent, here. Maybe the Black Prince himself? 

“Look! I found these.” 

Vaxian glanced up. Kathas bound up to him, her veridian glow striking against the otherwise gloomy rock walls; she lit up like a firefly. In one claw she held two articles: gloves. Carefully, the netherdrake extended them out to Vaxian. “They were where you're standing.”

They were halfway frozen, the fine leather cracked and splintered, and lined with deep purple scales and tipped with black claws. Dark blood stained one of them. Vaxian snuffled at them, then snorted. The same smell as the one near the wall. These were not his siblings'; they must have been the Prince's. 

It certainly confirmed that both the Prince and his family had been here. 

“Keep searching,” Vaxian insisted gruffly. “Keep them.”

Kathas went away, trotting down the other sloped passageway opposite the one her twin had slid through.

Vaxian had begun to walk to the main end of the cavern when a chill like mist brushed up near his side. He tensed - until he realized it was only the rolling energies of a Okelaka as she came up to him.

“You are taking your brother's death well,” she murmured as Vaxian began to walk, and she followed.

Vaxian shrugged his broad shoulders. “I am used to death.”

“Are you sure you're okay?”

The true sincerity in her voice startled him. Vaxian paused and looked at her. How unused he was for those other than family treating him with kindness, and no derision. “I will be fine,” Vaxian assured her. “There is nothing I can do for him, now, save to find his killers. There is no use crying over something I cannot fix.”

“Well, no. But I think it's natural, to cry. I would.”

Vaxian breathed out hard, a huff of a laugh. “I guess it is,” he admitted, and as she turned to look at him, he looked away. 

“I'm guessing you're not a crier? And that was a very sad little laugh. You are very serious.” Okelaka reached out and nudged the end of her snout into his neck, and here Vaxian actually laughed, and the mood instantly lightened between them, like a curtain drawn up. 

Quick footsteps from one of the passageways made Vaxian look up. He saw the glow of one of the twin's green bodies striking against the wall until Kathas appeared. “There's two chambers, but there was nothing in this one. One smells of orc.”

“But there's something in this one!” Lathas bound from the darkness of his passageway. “Chains! They smell of the skeleton. Another black dragon scent, as well.”

Chains for Talsian? Vaxian frowned. The other scent must have been Nasandria. Why would there be chains for his brother but not for Wrathion, who had been set along the wall? He could discern no other scents; only his family's, the two mortals, and Wrathion.

Then Okelaka glanced up. 

She trained her eyes on the entrance as the pearly crystals crusted along her spiraling horns began to glow. Vaxian was not learned in nether-dragon language, but he understood immediately that she was alerting to something.

Vaxian smelled them before he saw them: the musked tang of mortal, fresh and close.

The Blacktalon appeared from smoke, right before his face. 

Vaxian ducked, dodging the blow that would have slit his throat. The human, cloaked in black and wielding two steel swords, came at him again as the cave erupted with the alarmed snarls of the drakes as more rogues appeared.

As Vaxian moved away from the second blow, he scanned the cave: six mortals, in total. He snarled and whipped his tail around, smashing it into the second rogue who had tried to sneak up to his side. The orc went sprawling. 

Where had they come from? Vaxian spun away from the first rogue to pounce on the orc, though this one was too fast to recover; she jumped away from his claws as he smashed them down where she had lain. Around them, the cave seemed to bounce with the whirling neon lights of the netherdrakes' bodies as they fought off their own assailants. And why had Ralfas not warned them?

The two mortals, human and orc, kept at him. The cave was too cramped, too small for his form; each time he pulled away or struck out with maw and claw, he would meet rock. His tail grew sore from smacking back into the wall. 

“Move away!” Okelaka cried, unseen. Vaxian ducked, and a Blacktalon went sailing over his head, electrified by silver nether energy which exploded along his form once he smashed into the curve of the cavern. He moaned and went still.

The discharge startled the two rogues, giving Vaxian enough time to shift into his human form. He towered above them, black plate clanking, and as he drew his crimson greatsword, they moved away, bounding like rabbits. 

Vaxian raised the weapon. Nearly as long as he stood tall, he pointed it level, and waited, grounding himself through the earth as the chaos of the other drakes fighting resounded around him. 

The rogues glanced at each other, then at him. 

One disappeared. Vaxian saw it coming. He waited until he felt the smoke tickle at the back of his curled hair to swing around forcefully. The Blacktalon who'd appeared behind him dodged from being cut in half, but only just; the end of the shining sword slashed across their tunic, and red blood bloomed along the leather. The human cried out and dropped as Vaxian moved away to block the orc's front attack. 

Their swords clashed. The orc strained, but Vaxian overpowered her, and as she let her grip slack, he pushed down. Foolishly the rogue had tried to fumble for the hilt of her weapon, and it cost her a cracked wrist as the force of Vaxian's push slammed down against her sword. 

He moved away as she, too, dropped. After a quick survey of the cavern, Vaxian saw four rogues remained. Lathas bled silvery-green blood from his right eye, and Kathas, behind him, hosted a long slash along her shoulder. Okelaka was fine, at least from what he could see; two rogues fought her while the others separated themselves to attack the twins.

The rogue near Kathas had his back turned. Vaxian regathered his strength and, with a roar, exploded it outwards. A line of lava erupted before him and crashed the troll in the back. The troll's yell quickly died off, and the stink of burning flesh clouded the cavern. Lathas, too, narrowly missed the flame. Vaxian had to remind himself these drakes were not his family; they could not handle a hit of flame.

Three taken care of – somewhat. Vaxian felt the shift behind him and moved away just as the orc swept out her dagger. 

He whirled to face her. The orc's wrist was mangled, but she fought on, and again they traded blows: Vaxian waiting for her to make a move, then swinging with all of his might as she came close to swipe, repeated on and on. The dragon commended her strength, even when he feigned and then ducked to pummel her hard into the wall, where she didn't rise again.

_Now_ there were three down.

Vaxian joined the drakes to finish the remaining three off. Both Okelaka and Lathas had shifted into their mortal forms: Okelaka swung with a pearl-tipped staff and Lathas with a dark green mace. Realizing Kathas, who remained in drake form and fought off one of the Blacktalons herself, was fine, Vaxian joined the former to beat off the rogue.

But this rogue was skilled. Even as he joined Okelaka and Lathas, his added power did nothing to come close to killing the sandy-haired human. Each swipe, each bolt of nether-magic and flame, he danced around. 

The Blacktalon feinted at Vaxian, then at Okelaka – and then landed a blow on Lathas's shoulder, in the small opening underneath his mail shoulderpads. The veridian-disguised-draenei cried out and jerked back. 

Too late the rogue realized his mistake, as he went to swipe the killing blow at Lathas's throat, too quick for Vaxian, with all of his heavy plate, to stop: the human had turned his back. A furious scream knocked off the cave walls, and like lightning, a crazed, bouncing strike of nether-energy shot forth and pierced the rogue through the back. Smoke plumed; the rogue yelled and pulled away. Vaxian shoved him hard, and Kathas – who had sent the bolt – leaped behind and grabbed the Blacktalon by the chest. With a mighty lurch she threw him at the cave wall, and Vaxian turned away as he heard the mortal's spine crunch.

But as Vaxian raised his greatsword, he saw no more leaping rogues – only stillness, save for the hard, heaving sides of the drakes. He scanned the cave warily, keeping his sword poised, just in case he'd missed something, someone. But the bodies didn't move. The sudden silence unnerved him.

“We've got them,” Kathas announced, sinking into a bowing position and setting the top of her head on the cold stone floor in exhaustion. 

“Where did they come from?!” Lathas slid down to sit cross-legged, holding a hand to his bleeding wound. Through the cracks of his fingers leaked his silver blood. Kathas looked up at him, saw his wound, then hopped over to nudge gently at it. Her twin hissed and shoved her away.

“I apologize, Okelaka. You sensed them, before,” Vaxian rumbled, slowly lowered his greatsword. There was no denying it; all of the rogues were dead. He could relax. “Where is Ralfas?”

“Oh, don't worry about me,” Ralfas called from the entrance of the cave. “I'm only bleeding out, here.”

Vaxian sheathed his sword across his back and hurried around the curve of the cave, his plate clanking. Looking over Talsian's skeleton, he saw Ralfas, his black-blue body gleaming, crumpled on his side. A long, precise gash opened up at his throat. The rogues had narrowly missed slicing his jugular.

“Kathas, can you not heal?” Vaxian asked. Kathas was ahead of him; even as he asked she swept by, now in her draenei's form, and after skirting around Talsian's undisturbed skeleton, bent down to Ralfas's throat. 

“Don't worry. I have it,” she said, and her hands glowed with a sparking green energy. She set them onto the other drake's neck and murmured something under her lips as Ralfas jerked away then relaxed.

Vaxian did not understand how such healing worked. Kathas had tried to speak of it during their first day of flying when he had asked what their strengths were, but it confused him. Such nether-healing was, as he remembered, only possible towards nether-creatures. Those skilled in harnessing the nether could literally grab a hold of the nether in their kin's bodies and recombine it, similar to stitching flesh. Vaxian had no idea about the limits of it, but Kathas did not seem worried over Ralfas's gaping wound.

At least it was taken care of. Vaxian sighed roughly and scanned the cave. He would have to get rid of the bodies; he didn't want to disturb his brother's resting place with the bones of his enemies'. Quietly, he shifted into dragon form and began to collect the rogues. Okelaka understood what he was doing, and helped him drag them out to the entrance of the cave. 

“Toss them over the side?” Okelaka suggested. Vaxian hesitated, tempted by the idea, but shook his head then nodded to the side of the outcrop they'd first landed on.

“No. There. Bury them in snow,” he replied, and Okelaka nodded. 

It was a quick job. The snow grew red where the bodies were dragged, but Vaxian and Okelaka covered the stains with more snow, though Vaxian found that the nether-drake had to do more of the work, as the snow grew into slush with his heat.

“I'll never understand it,” Kathas said, finished with healing. She raised from her kneel by Ralfas's puckered neck and shifted back into her veridian drake form. “How did they think they could take us on?”

“Foolhardiness,” Vaxian rumbled. That, or instilled thoughts of invincibility that so many mortals seemed to have... or it may have been loyalty to their Prince. Either way, they were dead, their plan failed.

Lathas ambled up to them in his own drake form. His wound still bled. Kathas frowned at him and looked away. 

“Was there not six rogues?” Okelaka asked suddenly. “I only counted five that we buried.”

Vaxian snapped his head around. What?

Something rustled on the other side of the outcrop– and then a dark, furred form shot off from the cliff. Kathas screamed and snapped out, but her teeth missed the barbed tail of the wyvern as it took into the air. 

Vaxian began to leap, to blow flame – but the wyvern with its black-leathered rider shot down in a vertical dive then caught the next wind, and careened with such speed around the mountain its brown form blurred.

The drakes began to jump, but Vaxian lurched his body, blocking them. “Hold. We won't be able to catch them,” Vaxian panted, the wind shearing at his eyes, causing tears. He watched the dot of the Blacktalon and their beast disappear beyond the distance. 

“We just let him report back to the Prince?” Lathas asked, incredulous.

“Yes.”

They all stared at him.

“I said we won't be able to catch them – their mount is too quick. I didn't say we would not follow them.”

“He'll lead us right to the prince!” Lathas jumped twice, his shark-tail swinging. “Excellent!”

“What about your father, Vaxian?” Okelaka asked.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “He is not here. The scent must have come from this cave, and there is nothing here that will help any longer.”

“You picked up the scent miles before! That's quite a long way for a scent to travel,” Okelaka countered.

Vaxian thought the same way. After all, he had lost it for hours... his father couldn't be in the mountains, but he could possibly be in this golden, cold landscape outside the range. He spread his wings and made his decision. “Perhaps my father is here, somewhere, but this mortal will lead us to the prince. And then, Wrathion will be able to tell us where my father is.” They were wasting time; the Blacktalon would be long gone if they did not go soon. “Ralfas – can you fly?”

“Yes,” the cobalt drake grunted as he lifted to his feet. “I'll be fine.”

Vaxian unfurled the full of his wings, and without order, jumped from the outcrop and into the next wind, and the rest were quick to follow. He picked up the trail of the wyvern instantly.

“Be quick,” he commanded from behind his shoulder, and their speed tripled with the mountain winds.


	27. Chapter 27

Things were going much better than Wrathion thought they would.

He reclined into his bench and readjusted his leather sash as he looked around the Tavern. It was nice to see it busy again – or at least, having _some_ patrons, again. Some of his champions had come, today, and while Wrathion knew he was going to be yelled at by a handful, as of now, he hadn't meant anything with _great_ difficulty, which he was glad for; he was still utterly _exhausted_ , as the nightmares were still ever-present.

Sure. Some were confused about the whole “other black dragons” fiasco, but he found that not all of them knew about it. Most just checked in with him, to ask about their cloaks and the next part of their tasks, which Wrathion only hummed thoughtfully at. He didn't have  _too_ much to ask for, as of yet – he hadn't had much time, of course, to mull over how to augment the cloaks so it wouldn't harm them because of his...  _difficulties_ – so he'd simply sent them to watch how the Barrens, and participate as well as they should have. He'd call them when he needed them.

Some replied they'd been to the Barrens. Wrathion had asked them about it, though most of the information he'd known from his Blacktalon spy in the SI:7: Vol'jin led the rebellion, and the Alliance had lent their aid while they readied a fleet to engage the Horde at the harbor, and the Kor'kron had set up great machines of war to guard Orgrimmar. One of his champions had even thought she'd spotted an armored scorpion, as large as a dragon, near the gates. How... superfluous.

Oh, how Wrathion  _drank_ in the information! It felt incredible to get back in the swing of things, to grow comfortable in listening to the information and rumors and whispers and file them in the back of his head, to put the pieces together later, on his own time, to shape his plans again. It was second-nature, by now, and without his distractions, he could give most of his energy to it. 

Of course, he did have... some minor distractions left. But that would be dealt with soon enough – at least, before the Siege.  _That_ , Wrathion would make sure of... because he was beginning to have doubts about his initial choice in his grand plan. The Alliance was stronger than ever before, he'd heard: united more than they'd ever been. And if they laid siege to Orgrimmar, if they took the Horde's capitol city and crushed the Warchief... 

Yes, Wrathion would... have to rethink some things. And he wanted no distractions when he made his final, real decision.

Wrathion looked up, interrupted from his quiet musings, as heavy footsteps started up from the stairs outside. Another champion, a human paladin, eyed him with a look as dark as her armor and hair.

“My f-”

“No, you, don't talk,” she interrupted, stopping right in front of him. Some of the other mortals that were eating at the tables glanced at her, but otherwise paid her no heed. Most of them were his champions, after all; they knew how this went. “You're supporting the Horde?”

How appropriate, considering what he'd just been talking about. Wrathion swallowed his annoyance at being told to  _stop talking_ and smiled, though he felt Left, standing to his side, stiffen at the human's bluntness. “Of course not. I believe you've been listening to the wrong crowd, champion.”

The paladin drew herself up. “Everyone's been talking about it.”

“That  _does_ sound like an awful stretch.  _Everyone_ ?”

Oh, yes, he knew he was skirting around the question; the way the human's eyes flickered in aggravation was amusing, but that wasn't why he was doing it. This mortal hadn't been the first one to ask about his... dual sides, and each time he'd been asked, Wrathion had smoothed around the question with his charm and familiar annoyance, belittling the affair.

Like he was about to do.

“I heard you were the one that sent the Horde to kill High Marshall Twinbraid.”

Wrathion shrugged. “And I sent some of you to kill General Bloodhilt, the Horde's commander. I hardly see the problem.”

“You  _said_ you were supporting the Alliance.”

“Oh, I am,” Wrathion said with a sly grin. “But I am also supporting the Horde... both in my own way, of course.”

“You can't – that's a bit – you can't support  _both_ ! We're in a war!”

Some of the Horde in the Tavern looked up at the paladin; an orc shifted in his seat, his swords swinging at his waist. The human paid them no mind. Maybe she knew that Wrathion didn't allow fights, here; this was a place of neutrality, after all. If someone was hostile, the Blacktalons would be on them in the instant. Smart woman.

Wrathion shrugged again. “I do see the strengths in both of the factions,” he said. “I can assure you, it was necessary for me to  _see_ these strengths from  _both_ . Otherwise I wouldn't have made a fair judgment.”

“Judgment? For what?”

“ _Now_ you are getting ahead of yourself, champion.” He smiled cheerily. The paladin stared at him. “But! Honestly. It  _was_ necessary. I had Azeroth's best interest at heart.”

“Right. Like you always do.”

“Yes!” Good, she was beginning to see that. “It's nothing to get upset about. A small lie for the overall good of things isn't  _that_ great a fault.”

The paladin bit her bottom lip as she glared at him. She crossed her arms over her chest.

“I agree with 'im,” piped up a troll from one of the nearer tables. He raised his tankard to Wrathion in mock-toast, then took a deep drink. Once he put it down, he said: “Supportin' both isn't th' same as supportin' neither.”

“It practically  _is_ ,” the paladin retorted. She shot a glare at the troll. “It  _is_ the same. You can't support two sides at war, and lying about it is worse.” The human looked at him. “Considering what he is.”

Wrathion grit his teeth, but didn't allow his face to show his aggravation.  _“Technically_ – I never really lied to you. Sure – I said I was supporting the Alliance, but I never said I wasn't supporting the Horde.”

“You made us kill the general. I assumed that was a clear sign of you  _not_ supporting the Horde.”

“Well... he was a needed casualty. They both were.” Wrathion tapped his claws on the table. “I only needed to see if both factions could do what needed to be done... and how well they could do it. Besides! You all are all so used to this sort of rabble. I don't see the problem.”

“The problem is that you lied.”

“Then I deeply apologize,” Wrathion sighed. Gods, this paladin was the first really difficult champion he'd had today. He expected more, though; at least she was good practice. “But as I  _said_ – I had to.”

The paladin grumbled something underneath her breath.

“He may have lied,” came a voice from one of the tables near the entrance of the Tavern, “but I see nothing at fault, if what was done needed to be done.” Wrathion looked up and saw a high elf looking at him - someone he didn't recognize. He frowned.

“Let it go,” the orc who'd been roused earlier added, distracting Wrathion. “I don't like it either; liars do nothing for me.” Wrathion began to glare when the orc continued. “But if he continues to supply us with the artifacts – then I see nothing to worry for.”

“ _Thank_ you!” Wrathion leaned back in his seat and looked at the paladin. “As my friend said, I'm going to keep helping you grow more powerful.  _That_ is no lie.”

“So we can create a new world,” the paladin said, repeating what he'd said to them when he'd given them their Crowns. “To protect Azeroth.”

“I'm glad you remember,” Wrathion said with a grin. “That's the important part here, champion.”

The paladin studied him. Finally, she sighed and nodded.

“Fine,” she grumbled. “But I still don't trust you.”

“That's smart of you,” Wrathion quipped. “Now, for your next task...”

Wrathion told the paladin to participate in the Barrens, and she was off. At least she didn't stomp as loud when she left when she did coming inside.

Rather than be annoyed at the exchange, though, Wrathion was oddly uplifted. He beckoned Tong to get him some tea, and as he slipped the warm porcelain in-between his bare hands, he hummed idly to himself. He may not have been the largest dragon, he thought, but he certainly made up for his lack of size with his powerful words.

Wrathion had finished half of his tea when another entered the Tavern: a rogue. Their armor was expertly crafted but worn well and comfortably. Wrathion recognized them immediately.

“My _favorite_ assassin!” Wrathion sat up in his seat. “Come here. It's about time you showed up,” he added with a grin. “We have _much_ to discuss.”

The rogue took a seat across from him. Wrathion looked them up and down. Like some of his better champions, they wore the cloak Wrathion had given them after they'd gotten the Celestials' blessings – and after they'd beaten Wrathion up, something he didn't really like remembering.

It hadn't been a fair challenge, anyway. He'd been _blindfolded_. Honestly.

“I trust the cloak is working well?” Wrathion asked. The rogue nodded. Wrathion noted the daggers at the rogue's waist – the Fangs of the Father, red and purple and glowing with a yellow sheen. Their slit eyes stared at him. Wrathion looked away. “Good. I had been meaning to give you the same task as the others, but something of importance has come up.”

The rogue watched him attentively.

Wrathion lowered his voice; he didn't want the other mortals to overhear, and he was thankful Tong's cooking in the backroom, the sizzling of food and the crashing of pans, was loud enough to help mask his words, too. “It seems your... _expertise_ in black dragon slaying is needed,” Wrathion said. “Have you been to Blade's Edge Mountains?”

The rogue nodded.

“Excellent. I may be sending you there, soon. It will be a difficult job, but with your talents, I am sure you can do it.” Wrathion paused to smooth down his goatee. “But first... there are also some nuisances that you'll need to take care of, here. I've yet to get the information I need, but trust me, it will be within the next handful of days.” He eyed the rogue. “They'll be black dragons, of course – but you're used to that by now.”

The rogue stared at him, waiting.

“Ah! As for your reward... well, you are certainly one of my favorites. I'll think over something well crafted for you in particular.” Wrathion smiled. “Do we have an agreement, then?”

The rogue paused for longer than Wrathion liked, but they soon nodded. Wrathion widened his small smile into a grin. “Excellent,” he said again. The rogue rose from their seat. Wrathion loved how simple, how quick, such exchanges were; they were so to the point. “Stay here, at the Tavern. We'll be having some guests you may have to take care of, soon.”

The rogue nodded. Wrathion gave them a dismissive nod back, ending their conversation, and the rogue was off, slipping into the sparse crowd of the tavern. Wrathion smiled cheerily into his tea. Things were going very well, indeed.

A slow hour passed. Wrathion was visited by a handful of other champions, two of which were as annoyed at him as the paladin had been. Thankfully, none of them had been stupid enough to really show their anger at him, but the tauren druid had begun to grow claws at his great hands before Wrathion had managed to convince him that his supporting of both factions really was for the best. Other than that, Wrathion was having a decent day – but an odd one. It was strange, after so much mayhem, to return to normalcy (even if he was exhausted).

After an hour or two, Wrathion received another visitor, but it had been someone already in the Tavern: the high elf who had spoken in his favor. The one Wrathion didn't recognize. Tall with broad shoulders, the elf wore silky robes of white and dark blue, inset with airy, golden jewels the same color as his long hair. Large, crystalline pauldrons adorned his shoulders; they glowed faintly with a bronze energy.

Wrathion sat up in his seat, but didn't abandon his tea.

“A new face! What do I owe the visit?”

The elf smiled. “A visit to visit,” he replied in a smooth and handsome voice. “I was intrigued by tales of the Black Prince.”

Wrathion sat up even straighter in his seat. “Well, here I am,” he replied with a self-satisfied smile. “And you are?”

“Ah – I've forgotten.” The elf rolled back his shoulders as if shrugging off a cloak, and as he straightened, his scent changed. Rather than the faint smell of magic, the mortal exuded a multitude of scents: dry desert sand, a sugary sort of arcane, and... dragon.

Wrathion narrowed his eyes in surprise.

“I am Kairozdormu,” the dragon – not _mortal_ – announced casually. “Or Kairoz. I apologize for the deception; it is difficult in these times, traveling alone as a dragon.”

Wrathion had little idea what this 'Kairoz' meant by that. To so easily hide his draconic scent, Kairoz must have been an adult; why should he avoid mortals? Some of the patrons at the inn glanced curiously at the Bronze, but otherwise paid him little mind.

But a  _Bronze_ ! Wrathion had never met one. Out of all the Flights, it was the Bronze that intrigued him the most. Red and Black dragons, he could do without. Green was... boring. But the Bronze were masters of time itself – or at least, they used to be before the Dragonflights had crumbled in their powers with the defeat of his father. All the same, this Kairoz had to have some mastery over it. This was a welcome surprise.

With a bit too much enthusiasm, Wrathion said: “Interesting! A pleasure, Kairoz. Sit, if you'd like. Tong! Get my new friend a drink.”

Kairoz sat. Every moment the dragon made was graceful, as if the very fabric of reality warped around him to grant him such inhuman poise. Wrathion watched him as Tong brought the Bronze a cup of tea, which Kairoz accepted with a small but warm smile.

“So.” Wrathion began once Kairoz had turned to him, both of his gloved hands wrapped around the steaming mug. He studied Kairoz for a moment, taking in his face, before he spoke again. “'A visit to visit,' is it?” Wrathion asked, smiling at his rhyme. “I doubt that's the only reason.”

“Oh, it is not,” Kairoz admitted. “I am here in Pandaria for great opportunities it will soon poise.” Idly, the dragon looked around the room. His eyes had a lit quality about them, as if he was genuinely interested in everything he saw. “But I had time to spare, and I wished to visit some interests of mine.”

“What sort of opportunities?” Wrathion asked, immediately honing in on that rather than be flattered that he was this dragon's interest. “Pandaria has been unveiled for nearly a year. There's been ample opportunities, already.”

Kairoz took a careful sip of his tea before responding. “I had planned to visit more quickly when the mists had parted, but fate deemed me elsewhere,” he said, smiling. The bronze had a likeable quality about him that Wrathion, strangely, found he was not unnerved by; he was warming to Kairoz almost immediately. “There are many opportunities here in Pandaria for the Bronze Dragonflight, as scattered as we are.”

“Oh?” Wrathion perked up, trying not to rub at his dry, tired eyes; he needed to look  _presentable_ to this dragon, this... colleague. When was the last time he had spoken to another dragon amicably? Fahrad? The thought disturbed him and he pushed it away. “Tell me.”

Kairoz set his tea down. “I fear speaking more of such opportunities would give them away. But know this, young prince: the possibilities will be endless, and the information... invaluable.”

“You speak as if you've already seen it!” Wrathion frowned, then realized what he'd just said and abruptly grinned, his eyes alight. “Or have you? You Bronze mystify me! To see the past and present, to see all the options, all the timelines, all the realities of the worlds in front of you...” How easy would it be, Wrathion wondered, to unite Azeroth and beat back the Burning Legion, if he had such powers? He'd only have to look into the weave of time and choose the appropriate course! Surely he had visions, but they were broken nightmares – nothing as clear as what he knew the Bronze Dragons could see.

Kairoz frowned thoughtfully. “I admit, my powers have greatly lessened after the fall of the Destroyer,” he said, then paused to look at more intently at Wrathion. For a brief moment Wrathion felt his guard go up – would Kairoz, like so many others often did, blame his father's transgressions on him? - but the Bronze only shook his head. “I only see fragments, now, I fear. But I do know that the upcoming opportunity will be historical.”

“Can you not give me some hint?” Wrathion leaned forward in his seat. A historical event, one full of  _possibilities_ and excellent information? It sounded like a  _dream_ come true. “At the very least, where this place might be? I am sure you did not come here to  _tease_ me.”

Kairoz hummed. “You were the one to ask my purpose here, Prince Wrathion; I can only give away so much.”

“Well. Sure. But you did not have to  _answer_ me in the first place.”

“Did I not? I believe the orc glaring at me from the entrance to the side room might have grown frustrated if I denied you.”

Wrathion glanced over without moving his head, and indeed there was Left, but she was more or less invisible. She did look a bit annoyed – probably at being caught, which no one ever did. Wrathion grinned and turned back to Kairoz. “Very good! But don't worry, Kairoz. She won't shoot you. I have had worse arguments with my... friends, and they're alive to speak of it.”

Kairoz huffed in amusement. “I suppose you are right, then - but I am surprised you have not heard of where it is appearing already.”

“I've been... indisposed,” Wrathion replied. Kairoz glanced down at his cast arm so quickly Wrathion thought he'd imagined it. “Go on.”

“If you are so interested, I would advise you to send your Watchers to the coasts of the Jade Forest,” Kairoz suggested, and he let go of the tea to fold his hands together and set them on the table. “It may give you some insight.”

Wrathion perked up. “Good.” Movement shuffled to his right, and he knew Left was off to give such orders. What could this place possibly be? A very welcome new discovery, at the very least. “So,” Wrathion began again, watching Kairoz. “I interest you?”

“Yes.” Kairoz finished off his tea and put it back on the table. “As I said, I've heard much about you, young prince. I believe we could learn much from each other.”

“Oh?”

Kairoz nodded. “Very much so. I have heard you are planning for the Burning Legion invasion?”

Wrathion blinked before realizing, at this point, that sort of information wasn't exactly a secret. “Yes... why?”

Kairoz smiled good-naturedly. “I'm interested in protecting Azeroth, as well. I think that -”

A sudden commotion from outside interrupted him, and Wrathion looked up, frowning. Through the viewpoint of the open entranceway, a sweat-grimed wyvern landed, whipping its barbed tail back and forth as a human Blacktalon hopped off of it; the human nearly fell as he caught the ground and stumbled, and Wrathion quickly saw why. A large gash had sliced open the front part of his black tunic, and the blood had leaked all the way down to his belt.

This would be interesting.

The Blacktalon bound up the stairs. His chest heaved as much as his mount's. Kairoz sat up in alarm.

“My – my prince,” the Blacktalon gasped as he leaned up against the doorway. Tong hurried over and ushered the human into a chair, which the rogue sat in heavily. “D-dragons in – in Kun-lai.”

“That's why I sent you there, isn't it?” Wrathion looked the rogue up and down, then frowned. “And where's the dragon, then?”

“ _No_ – living dragons.” The rogue leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. “A – uh -” he looked around the room and saw the other mortals watching him, then looked at Wrathion and quickly bleeped the words _black dragon_ through his gem - “ - and four nether-drakes. They killed the rest of my group. Even Seamus.”

“What?” Wrathion shot up in his seat. “What did they look like? Was one of them a woman? Short, with chopped bangs?”

The rogue paused to consider before shaking his head. “No. Big buff guy with a sword. Rest were the nethers. No – uh – other one.”

So there was more than the girl! Wrathion grinned wildly. Oh, he _knew_ it. The Agent frowned confusedly at his reaction.

“My friend!” Wrathion called out as he jumped to his feet, beckoning his lingering Assassin over. The rogue slid close to him, and Wrathion lowered his voice. “I present you with your first assignment. Kill this black dragon – and the rest of these nether-drakes, while you're at it.” Of course – the draenei he'd seen with the woman had to have been more of the nether-dragons. He had never heard of them taking draenei forms, before, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that they were helping his cursed kin.

He should have seen it before. He'd been attacked by the nether-drakes first, after all, there on Mason's Folly. Clearly they were in some kind of league with the black brood.

The assassin nodded. Wrathion glanced at his injured Agent. “Give my friend a bit of information on the situation, will you?” He said, and as he sat back down, the two rogues began down the steps, talking in quick but hushed tones.

“And what is this, then?” Kairoz asked as Wrathion smiled contently to himself.

“Nothing, really,” Wrathion replied. Only when he could not longer see his rogues did he look to the bronze. “A... clean-up.”

“I was not aware there were other black dragons besides yourself.”

“Oh. Well. Yes. There are,” Wrathion grumbled. Kairoz had heard his conversation, then. “But! That will be true again in a short time.” He eyed Kairoz suspiciously, as if waiting for the bronze to make some high-and-mighty statement about it like everyone else had.

But Kairoz only tilted his head thoughtfully, then nodded. Wrathion blinked.

“I suppose we do what we have to,” Kairoz said.

“Finally, someone who sees sense!” Wrathion leaned back against the wall. “Everyone else seems fit to lecture me for something that I can't fix from happening.”

Kairoz linked his hands, then set them on the table. He shrugged and smiled, but there was something in his expression that Wrathion couldn't quite place. “When we shape the world,” the bronze said, “by doing what we must... nothing is at fault.”

Wrathion grinned slowly. “I think I like you, Kairoz,” he said, and the bronze smiled.

\---

Rexxar's last couple of nights on the Veiled Stair had been difficult.

It'd been simple to track the Prince, at least – they had gotten lucky. After leaving the camp, Misha had followed a faint trail which led to one of the slim, tall green peaks, jutting out over the ocean. Spirit had flown to circle, and had returned with a squeezed venom gland and a scuffed black scale. Misha had taken one snuffle and snorted, and then she'd loped off at an intent pace Rexxar'd been quick to follow.

So they'd tracked the Prince by tracking Sabellian. Rexxar could not deny he was somewhat off-put when they had flown up the Path of a Hundred Steps, keeping Leokk deep in the fog to avoid being seen, only to have Misha stop abruptly and rumble when they had landed near the cliffs that jut out over the green valley, far, far below; it was not her welcoming an ally, but sensing an enemy.

It was clear Sabellian was not there; Misha would have noted as much. Rexxar had come to the decision to stay and watch Stair – particularly the smoky tavern, loitered with Blacktalons. After he'd sent Spirit off with the message to Samia, Rexxar had waited. And watched.

It had been three and a half days. Had he not been a skilled hunter, Rexxar would have been caught already by the rogues, whose watchful eyes combed every part of the Veiled Stair. But again, it was difficult, and unrewarding; he'd yet to even see the Prince, and Misha had a tendency to suddenly wander off, her small ears perked as if she sensed something, before ambling back, anywhere from five minutes to an hour later. She seemed more frustrated than he, lingering there on the cliffs. Rexxar had some idea as to why – she'd been following Sabellian's trail, after all, not Prince Wrathion's. Stopping from following it further was aggravating her.

But what choice did he have? He was the only one who had found the Prince; he was not about to abandon such a poised position. He'd do what he said in his letter to Samia: wait.

It was a busy day at the Stair, in comparison to the three days Rexxar had seen. Rather than the quiet lonesomeness with only the braying of the mountain goats and the whispers of the rogues and the mists, small-scale activity murmured through the mountain peak as various people arrived at the mountain. Most were adorned with well-crafted armor or cloth, and their weapons were fit for heavy battle and spell-casting. Though Rexxar knew better than to judge the fighting skill of a person by their armor, he had a feeling these people were strong.

This made him wary. Why come to the Veiled Stair? He understood later it was to visit the Black Prince, as most people went into the Tavern while only a handful visited the other, smaller building off to the right, where Rexxar had seen pandaren hauling in heavy crates with careful hands, as if they held something delicate.

He'd crouched closer to the sparse crowd, but kept his distance; he didn't want to be seen, after all. While he hadn't returned to Azeroth in four years, his countenance was easily recognizable, and being pointed out was not something Rexxar wanted.

But the risk at getting closer paid off; Rexxar felt the tension in the crowd. It was minor with some people, who hopped in and out of the Tavern with a smile or casual expressions, but with some, it was great, simmering around their bodies like a touchable aura as they stomped into the inn. Some disagreement, then. But what? Why? The realization they knew little of this Black Prince struck him hard. What did these mortals want with a black dragon?

Now, he crouched behind a tall outcrop of rock to the right of the tavern, leading towards the smaller building with the pandaren. It would have been an open position had the crowd been larger and the mists thinner.

It'd been an hour or two since the arrival of the first person; Rexxar couldn't be sure. He'd sensed Misha to the north, near the cave with the lizard creatures. It was smart for her to stay away.

And he was glad he could crouch in a single spot for so long without tiring. As Rexxar watched the people mill about, stabling their mounts or going in and out of the inn, he fondly recalled a six-hour period of stillness when he'd hunted an albino elekk in Nagrand. He'd let the beast go, in the end, for the hunt had been successful; he only hoped that this same hunt with Sabellian would end the same way, with no death for his quarry.

The Black Prince, however, was a different hunt altogether.

Rexxar watched an orc and tauren walk into the tavern, and frowned. But he was forgetting the other reason why he'd come to Azeroth. What he'd said to Samia had not been a lie: he had indeed heard rumors of the Horde, even all the way in Outland, and wanted to see if they were true for himself.

 _But why_? Some part of him nagged. He had helped make the Horde, had been named its champion – but that felt like another life. After he had seen the senseless carnage of war...

He sighed. Even still, there was some care for the Horde he'd helped. He understood Thrall, his old friend, hadn't taken back the reins from Garrosh, the new Warchief. Rexxar worried over that. What was Thrall waiting for? Rexxar knew that the rumors centered around internal tensions in the faction – many tensions which revolved around the Mag'har warchief. The details were fuzzy, but Rexxar assured himself that, after he found his finicky friend, he would find out what was happening with the Horde.

Rexxar sighed roughly and brushed the thoughts away. He wasn't focusing as he should have, though a quick look at the Tavern told him nothing of importance had happened. The people still milled, their mounts pawed at their posts, and the mists churned.

Some time passed when Rexxar heard a strangled snarl from above. He looked up and narrowed his eyes – it sounded like Leokk, but the wyvern that descended from the fog was not his. The sweating beast landed hard onto the dirt and trotted forward, its chest heaving and its rider bobbing awkwardly on its back: a Blacktalon, bleeding from the chest.

Rexxar remained still as the rogue slid off the mount, startling some of those outside, and bound into the tavern in a half-hysteric leap.

What was this about?

As one of the pandaren gently led the wyvern towards the shambled stables, Rexxar watched the entrance to the inn. He felt the sharp side of one of his axes, hanging at his waist. The way the rogue was injured, a great slash across his chest, and the frenzied look in the wyvern's eyes... perhaps Rexxar was overthinking. Being too paranoid. He rumbled and leaned against the hill.

He waited.

He did not wait long. The rogue, still bleeding, reappeared with another, one of those that had gone into the Tavern an hour prior. They spoke together as they descended the stairs; the injured one clutched at his chest.

Rexxar crept closer as the two grew near to the mound he was hiding behind. The two rogues spoke in whispers, but Rexxar caught the end of their conversation.

“The dragons were about three miles from Mount Neverest,” the bleeding rogue said. The blood from his wound had seeped through the cracks of his fingers. “It you hurry, you might be able to track them near the cave.” He paused to glance back at the Tavern, then sighed and shook his head. “Good luck; you're going to need it. He's bringin' in some more dragons from the Valley, so I've heard, so be quick about it, too. He's probably gonna want you back. Boss acted kinda... cheery in there, but if you fail... Light help you.”

The other rogue nodded, and with a flash of smoke, they were gone.

The remaining Blacktalon grumbled. “As if we need him pissed off again.” He moved his hand away from his wound, grimaced down at the slash, then set his palm flat against it and began to turn back to the Tavern.

Rexxar made a split-second decision.

As the rogue grew close, Rexxar reached out and grabbed a hold of the human's shoulder and pulled him back.

The rogue jerked back in surprise. Before the man could call out, Rexxar whirled him around and smashed him into the rock. The rogue's head smacked back into the hard surface.

Dazed, the rogue yelped a clumsy “ _shit!_ ” and tried to flail around for the dagger at his belt. Rexxar only reached out and grabbed his wrist, squeezing it.

“Yell, and I will break it,” Rexxar warned.

The rogue growled and flailed, but with Rexxar holding one of his shoulders and one of his hands, he had little place to go. His small form – nearly half the size of Rexxar's – was nothing to Rexxar, who, while waiting for the rogue to tire himself out with his frenzied movements, mentally called out to Misha.

“Let go of me, you son of a bitch!”

At least the man didn't recognize him. Rexxar looked around and, seeing no one, tightened his grip on his captive's shoulder.

“What dragons did you send the other to find?”

Suddenly, the rogue stopped his flailing, and his face went blank save for a pursing of his lips and a hardening of his eyes. He said nothing.

This would prove a little difficult – unless.

Heavy footfalls crunched to Rexxar's right, and the rogue paled.

“Oh, Light, that's a big bear.”

Misha stopped at Rexxar's side and bore her lips back in a low growl, showing the rows of her sharp teeth, glistening with saliva. Her fur was coated with a shiny sheen from the mists.

“Do not make this hard on yourself,” Rexxar rumbled. The rogue stared at Misha, eyes wide. “My friend is no pet, and she is not tamed. She may hurt you if you do not comply.”

Misha growled again, and drool dripped down her mouth.

The rogue licked his lips and darted his eyes from Misha to Rexxar.

“I'll ask an easier question.” Rexxar nodded his head to the Tavern, hazy in the thickening mists. “What are these people doing here?”

The rogue relaxed. “Visiting the Black Prince.”

“For?”

“You stupid orc, you could have just gone in and asked rather than smash me into a damn rock!”

Misha snarled. The rogue hissed, shot the bear a glare, and spoke. “Fine, okay. He's been, uhm, away on business, so he's meeting with his champions. He gives them stuff.”

“Stuff.”

“You know, like, artifacts of power.”

“They are his soldiers?”

“That's... well. Yeah. Let's go with that.”

Rexxar considered that. The Blacktalons _and_ these 'champions' were an unwanted combination.

But he had little time to mull over those implications. He eyed the rogue darkly from beneath his wolf helm. “And what of the dragons?”

The rogue shook his head and remained quiet.

Misha advanced.

To his credit, the rogue remained still – up until Misha was a foot away from him, enough for her drool to dribble on his shiny leather boots. He jerked back.

“Okay, okay!”

Misha halted, but remained where she was. The rogue tried to crane his head away from her breath.

“Then speak,” Rexxar ordered.

“Can you call the goddamn bear off?”

“No.”

The Blacktalon grit his teeth, but a rumble from Misha prompted him to continue.

“Boss sent us to Kun-lai to -”

“Where is Kun-lai?”

“To the north.” The rogue paused and squinted at him. “Not from around here, are you?”

Rexxar grunted. “What did you need in Kun-lai?”

“A dragon corpse. Got at the cave and found some living ones.”

“What dragon?”

The rogue raised a hand. Rexxar tightened his grip on the other, but the human only rubbed at his face. “My head's spinning. Is this line of questioning going to continue so pointedly?”

“Then speak what you _know_.”

The rogue sighed heavily and sagged against the rock. “I've no idea when the dragon died. Big skeleton, so not recently. I just sent the rogue to get the others that killed my crew.”

A single rogue would be nothing against a group. Rexxar worked his jaw back and forth and hummed beneath his breath. If Kun-lai was in the north – Vaxian had taken the northern route. It could be his group, Rexxar thought, as the rogue turned his attention back to Misha, who took a seat right in front of him, a not-so-gentle reminder.

“You spoke of others,” Rexxar prodded, remembering.

Paling further, the rogue shrugged, a weak and shaky gesture. “I might have.”

Misha rose to her feet. The rogue squirmed.

“Rumor has it boss sent some others to the Valley,” the human breathed, just as Misha was opening her jaws. The bear clamped them shut with a grunt. “But that's all I know. I swear.”

Rexxar was trained in picking out liars. They rubbed at their mouths and made too much eye contact or too little; they often spoke too slow or too often. The rogue wasn't lying – he didn't know anymore than he'd said.

“A last question.” Rexxar let go of one of the rogue's hands, but was careful to keep his grip on his shoulder. He didn't want him to slip away. “What do you know of Sabellian?”

“Sabellian?” The rogue laughed. “Light, what _don't_ I know about that dragon. It's all the boss has been talking about! Do you know how many people we lost to that one?”

“Where is he?”

“Last I heard, dead under a damn kypari tree. Served him right. My job was a _lot easier_ before he came up the damn Steps... I liked, you know, just getting information and scaring the shit out of people in taverns, not being some meat shield for the Prince.” He huffed. “You know what Sabellian did when I was guarding the Path? Punched me right in the face! I didn't wake up for hours because of a damn spell he put on me!”

 _Dead under a damn kypari tree_. Rexxar searched for the signs of lying.

But there was none.

Rexxar leaned back; he tightened his hold on the rogue. A heavy feeling settled in his gut. To have come all this way to be too late...

“Ow.” The rogue wriggled. “Ow, man, you're hurting me.”

Rexxar stared past him. He did not loosen his grip.

“How was Sabellian killed?”

“Boss killed him,” the rogue said with a wince. “He lost it. Sabellian, I mean. Not the prince – I mean, though, the boss has got one wild temper... anyway, really, that's all I know. I swear,” he added hastily, then eyed Misha.

Sabellian had gone mad, then.

Rexxar pushed past the heavy ache in his chest – or at least, tried to. How could that be? How could Sabellian be _dead_? Misha had picked up a trail, had waited and itched to continue following it as they lingered at the inn. She was no regular beast; she would not follow somewhere that led towards death when she sought someone living. She would know.

He chanced a glance down to his companion. Misha's small, round ears were perked. He felt her awareness of his look, but the bear continued staring at the still rogue.

Could the rogue be lying? Or could Misha be _mistaken_?

“Why do you care?” The rogue asked suddenly. “What's with all the questions about the dragons?”

“It's none of your concern.” Rexxar paused. “You are sure Sabellian is dead.”

“Listen, I'm sure. Boss wouldn't be so relaxed if he wasn't, believe me.” The rogue frowned. “You're not from the Black Market, are you? I thought they only hired pandaren.”

“No.” Whatever the Black Market was, Rexxar was uninterested. “Very well. I have no wish to kill you -”

“I won't say anything. Please.”

Rexxar rumbled. “Are you not in the prince's guard? Your loyalty is lacking, at best.”

“Don't talk about loyalty with a rogue.” The Blacktalon grinned shakily. “But please - I really don't want to die. Please. A damn black dragon almost killed me, and I don't wanna get mauled by a bear because I was stupid enough to get caught. Please – I told you everything.”

That was true, the half-orc supposed. He regarded the rogue and sighed. Monsters many people were, but Rexxar would not be the same through senseless killing. The rogue had no idea who he was, anyway – and if he reported him, it mattered little.

They wouldn't find him if they tried.

So Rexxar nodded.

The rogue breathed in relief – but soon his eyes narrowed and he gripped onto Rexxar's arm. Misha snarled.

“Wait, though – don't hurt Prince Wrathion, either.”

“What?”

The rogue bit the inside of his cheek. “Sabellian was your friend, yeah?”

“I did not -”

The rogue winked. “Your face changed when I told you he was dead. I'm a good people reader.” He paused, then frowned. His grip tightened, the leather of his gloves coarse against Rexxar's bare arm. “I know what he did, but – okay, Prince Wrathion's a real jackass sometimes, but – he's a good guy, y'know? He's going to help everyone.”

What a strange switch of tunes. One moment the rogue had spilled secrets at the threat of death and the next he was begging Rexxar not to kill the boss he'd so easily betrayed.

“Killing a friend and his family,” Rexxar growled, “is not helping 'everyone.'”

“You're looking at it the wrong way. He -”

But Rexxar did not let him finish; the half-orc struck out with his fist and smashed it into the rogue's face, knocking him out cold. Misha stepped back as the human's unconscious body slumped to the dirt. Rexxar shook his hand out; his fist had collided with the ruby gem the rogue had been wearing, shattering it.

Rexxar slid his fingers underneath his mask, massaging the skin beneath his eyes.

_Sabellian, my friend..._

He understood what needed to be done.

“Misha.” Rexxar turned, and the bear looked at him. He reached out and set his two broad hands on each side of her face. “I must ask a favor of you.”

Misha stared, but one of her ears flickered: a sign of her attention.

“I cannot leave the Stairs if they aim to bring the others here as prisoners – if they get as far as that. I promised Samia I would remain here. But we waste time, focusing on the Prince.”

She grunted. _I knew that_ , she seemed to say, and Rexxar sighed roughly.

“You must find Sabellian for me – dead or alive. It will be difficult to find his trail again in the northern winds; you have done harder things. Can you do this?”

Misha gave another grunt, then pulled her face away from his hands, which Rexxar dropped to his sides. She stared for a moment longer before growling her assent.

“Thank you.”

And together they disappeared into the mists – Misha loping off through the northern pass, and Rexxar, to remain.

\---

Anduin straightened out his sash. For the first time he'd been out of his room in days, he wanted to look at least halfway decent – especially when he was going to see someone he hadn't seen for a while.

He frowned down at himself, sighed, then looked around; Anduin, his father, and some other Alliance higher-ups were in the portal room, cleared of adventurers. As the prime center of magical activity in the shrine, the area was good for making strong teleportation spells, but the mages that were usually in charge of running the scheduled portal openings to all of the Alliance cities wouldn't be opening the one Anduin and the rest were waiting for. The caster at the Isle of Thunder would be doing that.

“Anduin - are you doing alright?”

“I'm fine, Father,” Anduin replied hurriedly. Varian stood beside him, and he squinted down at Anduin. Two guards – Anduin's regulars, Melissa and John – flanked them.

Varian's ever-present frown deepened.

“You're certain the healers allowed this?”

“Walking?” Anduin smiled curtly at his father, then sighed. “They said I'd be fine. Everything's healing as it should.”

Varian raised an eyebrow – but much to Anduin's relief, he looked away.

Well – _mostly_ everything was healing as it should have been. The burns on Anduin's back were nearly gone, thanks to Ella's soothing salve, but while the slash on his arm had been expelled of fell, it still ached fiercely... and his leg was another matter entirely. With all of the stress he'd put on it recently – and being dropped directly on it by Sabellian – it'd been set back weeks in healing. 

And to think he'd been about a week or two away from trying to walk without the cane before he'd stumbled upon the fire at the Tavern. Anduin withheld a sigh. He'd be fine. It was just a limp. A very agonizing, bothersome limp.

And he wasn't about to tell all of his pains to his  _father_ . Staying in his room for the past couple of days had been torture enough; the healers had hardly let him out of his bed. If Varian knew how bad Anduin really felt, he'd have Anduin back in that sort of well-meaning (and probably well-needed) extra rest.

If that happened, who knew when he'd been able to see their visitor. Anduin looked around the room. He hadn't seen Jaina Proudmoore in... well, before she'd left for the Isle of Thunder. It seemed like forever ago. Worse still, the last time he'd seen her, he'd still been in the worse recovery stages of the Divine Bell; definitely not at his best. So it was important, to him, to look...  _normal_ for her. That he was fine; that everything was alright.

He tugged at his sash again. Any minute now, the portal would appear. Jaina had sent a message saying she'd arrive a little after noon. Without the bustle of the everyday crowd, the portal room's quiet was beginning to set him on edge, even though he could hear the muffled murmur of the people on the floor below them.

“Anduin,” Varian murmured, and Anduin looked up at him. The king remained staring in front of him, watching for the portal, so Anduin knew this would be a more private conversation. “Jaina hasn't been doing well.”

“Is she alright?” Anduin straightened. What did he mean?

Varian sighed roughly. “She's... stressed.” He paused. Anduin could see him thinking, saw how his eyes grew hard. “The Isle of Thunder campaign ended fine, but she worked hard.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing, father.”

Varian rolled his shoulders back. He rumbled, a low sound in his throat, as he hesitated again. “Try not to talk too much about the Sunreavers,” was all he said, and Anduin frowned.

He was honestly disturbed at himself with how little he was surprised by the news. Wary, unhappy, and worried, but not  _surprised_ . Anduin reshifted the grip on his cane, his palm growing sweaty in his windwool cloth gloves. Anduin  _knew_ Jaina's horrible rage after the bombing of Theramore had fizzled out, but she'd seemed... different when he'd spoken to her every time, afterward, as if something was still tense within her. He sighed.

Maybe he could ask Varian directly. Anduin opened his mouth – then stopped. A sudden  spark of blue across the room stopped him; it began to swirl and grow into a portal. A dark, shapeless mass began to form in the center, as as the portal solidified, so did the figure, until finally it became a person: Jaina Proudmoore.

Anduin stopped the smile that threatened his face. After all, this was a serious affair: the Archmage of the Kirin Tor was returning from the Thunder Isle to begin plans of the siege on Orgrimmar.

Immediately, Anduin understood what his father had said. Jaina's blue eyes were guarded, and thin lines spread beneath and at the corners of her eyes; her hair, the stark white against the blonde, was a little frazzled. She _looked_ stressed.

“Jaina,” Varian greeted warmly. Anduin had no doubt his father saw Jaina's exhaustion, but the king hinted little at such knowledge in his tone. “It's good to see you.”

Jaina smiled – or at least, tried to. It was a tired gesture, and strained.

“You as well, King Varian,” Jaina replied curtly enough, and it was then that she noticed Anduin. She smiled, and it was no flinch upon her face. “Anduin!”

“Hello, Aunt Jaina.” Anduin returned the smile, and relaxed. “I'm glad to see you here safely.”

Jaina came towards them. Behind her, two Kirin Tor battle-mages, cloaked in heavy cloth robes, exited the portal, which closed soon after with a sharp whirling sound.

“How are you? How is everything?” Jaina asked before either Wrynn could speak again. Anduin shuffled awkwardly, not liking how the conversation had shifted to him again in the span of three minutes.

“I'm fine,” he said quickly. “But how are you?”

“Decent enough,” Jaina replied. “It's nice to finally get off of that island.” She glanced at Varian, and her expression sobered again. “Is everything being prepared?”

“As well as it can,” Varian said. “We're almost done with the last of the fleet.” They'd had to rebuild some of the boats; Garrosh had destroyed much of the Stormwind navy with the kraken. Anduin only hoped that it wouldn't happen again, though there hadn't been much reports of dark shaman on the shores. Dwarven and tauren shamans, at least, were guarding the coastline, trying to soothe the land and guard it if Garrosh's shaman _did_ try anything. “Once everyone's here, we'll have an actual discussion. But for now, Jaina – try to rest. You deserve as much.”

Something in Jaina's face flickered. She took a breath, ready to say something, but then she paused, glanced at Anduin, and stopped. She nodded. Anduin frowned. With how her eyes had gone hard, whatever she was about to say wasn't going to be kind.

“Anduin,” Varian began, “why don't you show Jaina to her room?” The king glanced down at him. Anduin almost startled. His father was letting him go off to walk around after Jaina's arrival? He'd assumed he'd be ushered back into his room... Quickly, Anduin nodded, then smiled at Jaina.

“Of course.”

“How gentlemanly,” Jaina said. Anduin felt his face flush.

“Do you have any bags?”

“Nothing that needs carrying.” Jaina glanced behind her shoulder at the Kirin Tor battle-mages. They stood at attention. “Stay here and wait for Vereesa's arrival,” she ordered, before turning back to Anduin. Time to go.

Anduin drew himself up. The pain in his leg wasn't _as_ bad, but that was only because he'd pushed hard healing into it for his hour alone. He didn't want Jaina, too, to worry about him.

Though, then again, Jaina probably didn't want anyone to worry about her – and look what they were doing. Anduin smiled brightly at her. “This way,” he said, then nodded to his father. Varian nodded back, and as they made their way out of the portal room, Anduin saw his father watch them go, his expression unreadable.

Jaina would be staying near his own room, on the third floor of the Shrine, heavily guarded and lavishly decorated. She'd stayed here, before, so really – Anduin showing her there was a bit redundant, but he had a feeling Varian just wanted him to have some time with his aunt.

Getting up the flight of stairs was exhausting, but at least Anduin only had to go up one.

Jaina came up to his side as they left the stairs behind and began their long walk down the hallway. The upper rooms were for distinguished guests, only; adventurers usually slept in the rooms above the Golden Lantern.

Taking care not to step on the engravings of the Celestials etched into the floor, Anduin chanced a glance at Jaina. She'd lost some of her frigid air since walking up from the portal room, and Anduin was glad to note her shoulders had relaxed from their stiff  _T_ and her eyes had grown softer. 

They turned around a small bend in the hallway. It was quiet up here; the busy chatter of the crowd two floors below them was but a dull murmur in the background. Anduin wished the windows to his right, lining the wall, were open, at least. The fresh air and the sounds of the Vale, the bird songs, the chimes of the Golden Lotus, and the cloud serpents calling to one another would be welcome, rather than this small silence where the  _clack_ of his crutch and Jaina's softer footfalls were the only things he could hear.

“I heard you snuck out a couple days ago.”

Anduin cringed before realizing Jaina hadn't said it with malice. She was smiling faintly.

“Yes...” It was three more steps before Anduin continued. “I went to a funeral.”

Jaina dropped her smile, and her brows furrowed in her familiar way. The small, token gesture was oddly relieving for Anduin. “I didn't know that. I'm sorry, Anduin. Anyone I would know?”

“I doubt it. She was one of Wrathion's personal guards.”

Jaina hummed thoughtfully. Anduin waited for her to ask about Wrathion, to ask about Right, but the archmage kept quiet; he wondered if she was waiting to get to the room.

They arrived shortly. The door, like all the others, was individually decorated; this one had a Niuzao engraving, the Celestial's great black horns jutting up along the length of the door. Anduin's room had Chi-ji. Everyone thought it would be fitting.

“Here we are.” Anduin, with only a little bit of difficulty (he was used to opening doors with his cane, by now), opened the door and held it for Jaina, who smiled at him in thanks and went inside.

Anduin shut the door with a gentle  _click;_ looking around the room, Anduin noted that Jaina had gone to look out the large oval window that overlooked the Vale in all of its golden glitter. The room itself was appropriately sized for a single person, but had the accommodations to sit two: two armchairs, velvet red, were pressed up near a glass table at the far end of the room, which was opposite the bed, plush with thick blue-and-gold comforters.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” Anduin asked, smiling, as he leaned back against the door. His leg began to cramp. At least he wouldn't fall if he was leaning, even if it was a bit rude.

“Very,” Jaina agreed, before she ran a hand through her hair and turned to him. Her eyes widened. “Oh, Anduin, please. Sit.”

He did as she asked, thankful for the invitation. As with all of pandaren furniture, the armchair was immensely comfortable, and Anduin sighed in relief as he sagged back against the soft fabric. Not for the first time, Anduin wondered how well his leg would be healing had he not been snatched up by Sabellian, there at the Valley. Then, maybe, he wouldn't look so obviously exhausted...

He shook his head. There was no use worrying over something one couldn't change, no matter how bitter the thought.

“So,” Anduin began, smiling, relaxing into the room now that they were alone and he could sit comfortably, “how was the Isle of Thunder? I've heard so many things about it.”

“Oh, rainy,” Jaina quipped. She paused for a moment, glanced out the window, then took her seat, opposite of Anduin. “I don't think I want to ever see another thunderstorm.”

Anduin laughed under his breath. “I can imagine.” He looked up at her. “I'm glad we can finally talk, Aunt Jaina. It's been a while.”

Jaina smiled faintly. “Me, too, Anduin. And I'm glad you're doing better – I wish I could have stayed during your recovery.”

Anduin hurriedly waved his hand. “No, it's fine. It was a little boring,” he said with a grin. “It was a lot better that you went to the Isle rather than watch me struggle to get out of my bed.”

“So you're doing alright?”

Anduin nodded. “I'm doing great.”

Jaina's smile tilted into something a bit more wry. “Even after your adventures with dragons?”

Oh. So Jaina did have some idea. Anduin rubbed at the back of his neck and shrugged. “Um – more or less.”

“Varian told me a little bit of what happened.” Jaina rose from her seat and headed to the side of the room near the door to the dark, red-wood counter, where a porcelain tea set sat. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.” Anduin realized he should have asked someone for something for them to eat; he'd no idea if Jaina was hungry or not. Light, that was rude of him. He brushed his bangs away from his face as he watched Jaina open one of her hands to create a blue spark in her palm. She put it over the tea pot and with a hiss, water appeared within her fingers, then filled filled the pot and stopped the spell. Anduin stared; he didn't think he'd ever get over how incredible magic was.

“Unfortunately, I don't think they have any Dalaran Sharp, here,” Anduin said. Jaina laughed. It looked like she was becoming more and more relaxed.

“Oh, that's fine. I'm not too hungry.” Jaina picked up the small tea pot, painted with a celestial dragon, and summoned a small flame in her free hand. She put it underneath the pottery.

“Tell me about the Isle,” Anduin said, though it was more of a suggestion. He really _was_ curious; he'd been with Wrathion during the Thunder King campaign, but he'd been too injured to visit the Isle of Thunder in actuality. Not like anyone would have let him go in the first place. “Was it really as dangerous as everyone said it was?”

Jaina furrowed her brows. Still boiling the water, she said: “Very, and more. The Mogu were the worst problem – and the trolls, of course. But then there were saurok, elemental turtles and crocolisks... every place you stepped, you risked having your life taken.” She paused and then glared at the tea pot. “The Sunreavers, too.”

Remembering what Varian had warned him, Anduin tried to skirt around the mention of the blood elves. “I'm just glad we didn't lose too many people.”

Jaina nodded, her sudden aggravation gone. “It's lucky we found the entrance to the sewers. A full on siege would have been disastrous.” The stem of the teapot began to hiss steam, and Jaina quenched the fire in her palm. She poured the hot water into the two cups and set the tea leaves, stored in a small glass box on the counter, in both, and even from where he was sitting Anduin could smell the sharp citrus. “But it ended... fine. The Thunder King's dead, and with that menace gone, we can finally turn our attention to Garrosh.” She rolled the Warchief's name on her tongue like some sort of poison, but her face remained pleasantly neutral, if a bit tired.

Anduin shifted in his seat and nodded. “I've heard about what's happening in the Barrens – and in Orgrimmar. The rumors about what the Kor'kron are doing to the Darkspear they catch are... awful.”

Jaina made a dismissive noise as she picked up the two cups and went back over to him. She set them drinks down and took her seat again. “It won't be soon enough for his Horde to crumble and he's dead at my feet for all that he's done.” She'd practically said it in a growl.

Anduin remained silent, a wary churning in his gut. He watched her as he took up his tea, warming his hands around the heated porcelain. Jaina was glowering into the gold tea, but as she took a sip, she steadily began to relax again until she leaned her head back into the chair and closed her eyes. Her hands, and her cup, rested down to her thighs.

Anduin took a sip of his own drink. Green tea with orange and lemon leaves. Not his favorite, but it wasn't the worst he'd tried in Pandaria. The entire time, Jaina didn't move or open her eyes.

“I'm sorry, Anduin,” she said suddenly. Jaina opened her eyes and stared vacantly at the wall. “I've just been tired for so long. I'll – try not to make those comments around you.”

Anduin smiled gently. “Maybe you should go rest, rather than waste your time with me.”

Jaina shot him a pointed look, but soon she gave him a tired but warm smile. “And if I said the same to you, what would you say?”

“Probably that I was fine,” Anduin admitted. Like he just did a moment ago.

“And the same with me. Really, Anduin, I'll be alright. I'm just exhausted. It's nice talking with you.”

Anduin nodded. The tension melted off, and the two enjoyed their tea not in the icy silence but in a comfortable one.

“But enough about me,” Jaina said after a moment, “what about you? Varian didn't tell me everything.”

Well... there was certainly not getting around this conversation. Anduin shrugged and swirled his tea around, watching it spin in his cup. “You heard about the black dragons?”

Jaina sighed heavily. “I did. I really can't believe there were some left. With how thorough everyone was in killing them, I can't imagine how some survived.”

“They came from Outland,” Anduin corrected. Jaina raised an eyebrow. “They weren't even here during the Cataclysm.” Anduin finished off his tea and set the empty cup down, where it _clinked_ against the glass table. He opened his mouth, to say how Sabellian and the brood weren't as corrupted as everyone initially believed, but he stopped himself. Light – how many times had he given that spiel? They were only idly chatting, anyway, and at least Jaina wasn't gung-ho about killing them. “Honestly, Aunt Jaina... if you're tired of thunderstorms, I'm tired of dragons.”

Jaina laughed. “They're a curious race, aren't they?” She set down her own empty cup. “What's the Black Prince like? I've heard some things about him, but I know you've spent some time with him.”

That and more, some part of him though. Anduin leaned back in his seat and rubbed his hands together. “He's... curious,” he said, grinning slightly as he used Jaina's oddly appropriate word. Anduin sobered as he thought back to the last time he'd seen the prince, staring him down with the icy look. He shook his head. “Try to imagine an uncorrupt black dragon intent on saving the world with the... well-known skill set of a regular black dragon.”

“He sounds so charming.”

Anduin laughed faintly. “That's one way of putting it.”

“He's taking care of the other black dragons, then? He did that before – didn't he?”

Anduin paused, then nodded.

“At least it's another problem we won't have to deal with – but I'm so sorry that you were re-injured again when the broodfather got you.”

So was he. Anduin glanced down at his right leg and sighed. “Thanks, Aunt Jaina. But it's nothing time won't fix.” He smiled at her. At least, that's what he hoped. He wasn't deaf; he'd heard some of the healers say he might have a limp for the rest of his life.

“It's nothing, though. It was a... tiring... ordeal, but there's really nothing else to do about it.” Anduin didn't want to linger on his own injuries, or on the black dragons. The longer they didn't talk about them, the better, regardless of who he was with. Wrathion – and Sabellian's death – was still a sore spot. “Have you seen Kalecgos recently?” Anduin decided to ask. That was one dragon he could talk about without suddenly veering the conversation off -course.

Jaina shook her head. “It's been hard to. I've been too busy.” She brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen in front of her face, then frowned. “He's been busy, too. He's had some trouble with dragons himself, apparently.”

“What?” Anduin tilted his head. “What kind?”

Jaina shrugged. “He didn't say. He found some sort of artifact they had – he also told me to tell you hello.”

“Hm.” Anduin hadn't heard of many other dragons in Pandaria; he knew that Kalecgos was acting as an ambassador of sorts for the Alliance with the pandaren factions. Maybe some other blues had paid him a visit, if they'd been carrying an artifact. Honestly, he was a bit surprised there _weren't_ more dragons in Pandaria, with how rich the culture was and the wealth of knowledge the lost continent had...

Unless there was dragons, here; they might have just been disguised.

“Anduin.” Jaina's sudden sharp voice startled him. He looked at her. “Do you know what the Horde found in the Vale?”

The remember made Anduin's chest ache. He tried to force the feeling down. “No. Tyrande tried to send some of her Sentinels to investigate, but there was some magical barrier. They got really sick.”

“Sick? Like what?”

Anduin hadn't seen them with his own eyes, but he'd asked the healers who'd been treating him in the past couple of days. “An exhaustion of some kind. They couldn't get out of their beds, and their rate of healing plummeted. They're fine, now, but... my father didn't want anyone to go near the dig site anymore. We can't risk some sort of outbreak.”

Jaina frowned; Anduin could see her thinking. He remembered the wave of terrible feelings that had assaulted him at the dig site and wondered if the Sentinels had felt the same. 

Actually, the heaviness he'd felt before he'd left for the Tavern had returned to him when he'd come  _back_ from the funeral, where it had lifted. It was subtle, but Anduin could feel it, like he was wearing a second shirt over his golden one. It had to be because of the pit, he'd reasoned. It had gone away when he'd left the Vale; what else made sense?

Worse still, Anduin  _recognized_ the feeling. He'd felt it at the Temple of the Red Crane, when the Sha of Despair had appeared in the depths of the temple...

“We can't just let them keep digging,” Jaina huffed, distracting Anduin from his thoughts.

“No,” Anduin admitted. “But their ultimatum is almost up. The Shado-pan, and the Golden Lotus, are getting ready to push them out. I just... can't believe they destroyed that much of the Vale.”

“I can,” Jaina said. She shook her head and ran a hand down her face. “Especially with Garrosh.”

“They'll be gone soon,” Anduin tried to reassure, but his voice sounded weak. It hadn't been the first time he'd worried about what was in that pit, and what would happen if whatever was down there was brought  _out_ . 

But with the might of the Alliance to the south, and the Shado-pan and Golden Lotus to the north, if Garrosh tried to do anything, he'd be stopped.

“Soon, maybe,” Jaina sighed. She rested her head on her outstretched fist, propped up on the armchair. She studied him. “You look so much older, Anduin.”

Anduin smiled weakly. Well – that was a lot better than saying he was too young. “Thanks - I think.”

“Let's stop talking about Garrosh,” Jaina suggested. “Even I'm tired of thinking about him. Maybe we could send for some food? Then you can tell me all about what you've been up to.”

“That sounds – that sounds great, Aunt Jaina.”

\---

The tavern smelled like aged beer, frying meat, and the sweat of mortal.

Samia hated it less than the nether-drakes did, whose backs were hunched over their picked-at meals; she was used to mortals, having disguised herself as an entire year for one in the company of them.

Sighing, she shook her head and took a long drink from her mug – nothing but apple juice. Getting buzzed when she was supposed to look for information was a stupid idea, though that hadn't stopped Malfas and Zoya from ordering beer, even though they'd never drank before.

It was the noise, though, that was really getting to her. It was late at night, and the mortals – farmers, she'd discerned – were done with work, and the tavern was packed with them, dozens of pandaren and other mortals alike who spoke in roaring voices and filled the many rooms with laughter and a terrible music Samia knew was supposed to be uplifting but only came off to her as ear-grating.

And with all of the _noise_ , it was hard to listen to a single conversation. She might as well have been in a bee-hive.

“This is terrible!”

Samia glanced over. Malfas stared into the depths of his brew, hardly touched, his lips curled back in a faint look of shock.

“It's beer, Malfas. It's not supposed to be good.”

“Then why do they drink it?”

“To get drunk.”

“Why?”

Samia grunted and took a bite of her cooling meat. She had no idea what it was. Mushan, the waiter had said? “I don't know. Ask one.”

Malfas immediately leaned over to his right, where a pandaren and who seemed to be her wife sat, sharing an enormous mug of beer larger than their heads. “Exc -”

Within the instant Azorka had gripped onto Malfas's arm and yanked him back straight. “Samia was being sarcastic.” She let go, leaving Malfas looking bewildered, then embarrassed.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Samia repeated with a sigh. Zoya glanced at her and Samia looked away to glance around the room. She knew she was being short with them, but honestly, could they blame her? They'd nearly made it to Stoneplow and had to stop for the night, and they'd heard nothing else about dragons or burned farmland.

They hadn't heard from Rexxar, either, which was annoying. But it'd only been a couple of hours, hadn't it? Samia couldn't remember. She swirled her drink. Neither had they heard from Vaxian or Pyria, but they had to be alright.

“Samia,” Feraku said, and she looked towards the drake, “there's a Blacktalon there, in the corner of the room.”

Great. Samia glanced over briefly. Yes, there he was – a night elf in the black garb. Samia almost missed him, he blended in so well. He wasn't looking at them in particular, so Samia turned away.

“It's fine. We're not doing anything suspicious.” To punctuate her point, Samia returned to finishing her meal. “I wonder how many he has.”

“I'd assume a lot,” Zoya chimed in, though she kept her voice down. Out of all the nether-drakes, she seemed the less tense. Apparently she had spent some time in Shattrath among the mortals, and was as accustomed to them as Samia was. “He sent so many to Blade's Edge – I really doubt he'd send all he had.”

Samia hummed her agreement. Though the Blacktalon wasn't looking at him, she could feel his presence, a new weight on her mind. “At least he's only the second one we've seen.”

“There's actually another one,” Azorka said. Samia looked up and narrowed her eyes. The onyx nodded to her left. “Over there.”

A second one? Samia, as she had before, took a quick look. Azorka hadn't seen incorrectly; a troll stood guard near the door, and her lean against the wall feigned a casualness Samia knew as false.

“It's a crowded inn,” Malfas interjected. “Maybe they're just here for the same reason we are?”

“For what? Information?” Feraku asked. The azure drake frowned and drummed his fingers on the table. “What does he use his Blacktalons for, anyway? I assumed it some sort of personal army.”

“So did I,” Samia rumbled as she stared at her food. What else could they be for? Obviously, Wrathion had either manipulated mortals to fight for him or had them paid handsomely for their service. He was only a hatchling; it made sense he would have to get others to fight when he couldn't.

It didn't make sense for them to be scattered around Pandaria, though, now that she thought about it. Maybe to enforce his power? The blood elf had certainly tried to bully them into submission, all in her prince's name.

“It's probably nothing,” Samia said. It'd be costly to be too paranoid; if they tried to get up now and bolt, it'd be suspicious. Might as well stay. “Just eat and listen for anything important.”

“I honestly don't think any of these mortals will know anything,” Feraku said. “Or if they do, they're being quiet about it. Don't you remember what the blood elf said? Wrathion doesn't want anyone asking about the dragons. That's why she stopped us.”

Samia looked up to glare at him. Feraku held himself stiffly in his seat and his bright eyes were lidded, and though he stared at her coolly, she could see the challenge there in his face – guarded, certainly, but definitely there.

“Okay,” Samia began, keeping her voice low where Feraku had not, “what do  _you_ think we should do?”

“Go to sleep.” Feraku leaned back in his chair and pushed away his plate of food, the porcelain clean of leftovers. “You've been pushing us day and night without much rest, so I'd actually like to get some tonight... it seems like a better idea than staying up listening for something we're not going to hear.”

Samia glanced over the others. Malfas and Zoya were averting their eyes; Azorka was eating as if the conversation wasn't happening.

“You two agree?”

Malfas cleared his throat and shrugged. “I am pretty tired.”

Zoya smiled apologetically. “I know we don't have all the time in the world, but... I'm tired, too. I'm sure your dad will be fine in just the couple of hours we rest.”

Samia finished off her drink. They had a point, she supposed; no one was talking about the dragons because of the Blacktalons.

“We can rest, I guess,” Samia said. “Once we get to Stoneplow, we can start asking more directly.”

“What we should do is turn back around and find where Rexxar is,” Feraku insisted. He'd finally had the sense to lower his voice, even if the crowded inn swallowed much of their voices. “Your father could wait.”

“My father might be in trouble,” Samia countered. “Rexxar found the prince. He isn't going anywhere.”

“The prince might be able to tell us where your father  _is_ .” Feraku sighed roughly. “I only believe that trekking around this dirt and talking to these sweaty mortals is an enormous waste of  _time_ .”

“Trying to find my father is not a waste of time.”

“For you, maybe not.”

“Feraku,” Zoya interjected. “Enough. Really. We're going to get some sleep, okay? Let's just finish our food and be done with it.”

Feraku said nothing, and Samia stared at him. The other nether-drakes went back to finishing their meals, but the two of them stared at each other in silence; the conversation may have been over, but the tension was still there.

Finally, Feraku looked away.

Samia would have to keep an eye on that one. Finicky and self-assured wasn't a good mix, and added in with an apparent apathy for her father... that wasn't welcome.

As she'd already finished her meal, Samia leaned back in her seat and watched the inn. She caught sight of the two Blacktalons as the mortals moved around, allowing gaps in the crowd, in the same positions they'd been in before.

Then, she saw a third flash of black-on-black. Samia paused in her scanning. The crowd had grown thicker there, again, but two pandaren moved away, laughing and clinking their tankards together.

A third Blacktalon, a human, stood near the wall.

Like the others, this one didn't look at their table; he was looking to his side. With how far away he was from them – nearly on the opposite side of the large tavern – Samia didn't realize, at first, he was talking to someone.

Samia leaned when the crowd didn't shift to give her a view of who the Blacktalon was talking to. The Blacktalon spoke to another: an orc. Four Blacktalons.

“Something's not right,” Samia murmured as she straightened in her seat. A heavy feeling began to settle in her stomach. One or two Blacktalons had been fine.  _Four_ ? That seemed inappropriate for a tavern this size. She watched the two rogues speak and noticed that the other mortals were giving them a wide berth. 

“What?” Malfas looked up from his empty plate.

“There's four Blacktalons here.”

“ _Four_ ?” 

Samia finished her drink. “Nevermind,” she said. “There's five.”

The blood elf, the very same that had been at the Silken Fields, was near the other exit -

Staring right at her.

“I think we should find a different inn to sleep at,” Samia suggested in a casual voice. The nether-drakes watched her; all were smart enough not to whip their heads around to look for the rogues. “How's that sound?”

“They're blocking both exits,” Azorka pointed out.

“We can make one move. Doubtful they'll openly attack us in a crowded space.”

“How do you know they're after  _us_ ?” Malfas asked, nervously cupping his untouched brew with both hands, the pads of his broad, dark blue fingers moving in circular motions against the tankard. 

“The blood elf from the Silken Fields is here. She hasn't broken eye contact with me,” Samia said. The elf hadn't moved, either. She was just standing there.

“Oh.”

Samia slid her hand down to her waist. Her sword was strapped to her belt, and she touched the hot, steel hilt, felt the intertwining dragon shapes there in its decorations. Her mother's spare sword. No – the rogues wouldn't attack them, here. One wrong move on their part and a fellow mortal would get a dagger to the throat in such a cramped space.

“I've not idea where we slipped up,” Samia said, breaking eye contact with the blood elf, “but apparently we did. Let's get to the left-most exit, and -”

“Good evening.”

Samia jumped. Parting from the crowd, the first Blacktalon they'd seen – the Night Elf – appeared before them. His large hands were clasped behind his back, allowing them a view of the four daggers, two to each side, strapped to his black-and-silver belt.

Samia gripped the hilt of her sword. The Night Elf glanced down, but remained passive.

“What do you want?” Samia asked, leaning forward in her seat. She'd lowered her voice so the rogue would have to strain to hear her.

“To extend an invitation to the Veiled Stair.” The Blacktalon bobbed his head; the nether-drakes remained stiff. “Prince Wrathion wishes to speak with you.”

Samia grew cold. She stared at the Night Elf as her mind raced. They'd been found out; that, she had no doubt. Why else would Wrathion himself ask for them? And  _what_ could have given them away? She'd been so careful!

“Why?” She asked with a clipped voice. The possibility that her brother or sister had been found scratched at her. That sudden thought was worse than the rest.

“I said he wishes to speak with you.”

“I know what you said,” Samia growled as she ran the pad of her thumb up and down the bumps of her sword's hilt, “but that's not the best answer.”

The Night Elf smiled and shrugged.

Samia rose swiftly, startling the pandaren at the table next to theirs. She felt the nether-energy from the drakes spark in intensity, like a wave of static against her face.

“I would not recommend a fight,” the rogue said. “We're stationed in the tavern, and outside.”

“I'd recommend you telling me why he wants to talk to us,” Samia said, keeping her voice calm despite her offensive position. “Or else this will end worse for you than it will for me.”

The Night Elf pursed his lips. Seconds passed. The pandaren to Samia's sides had inched away from their table to find other places to sit.

“A conflict of interests,” the elf finally said.

Oh, please. They all knew why they were here, didn't they? Did the rogues have to be so damn dramatic? Samia glanced around the room – and saw that the rogues she'd seen before had disappeared. That wasn't good.

“So he just... wants to talk to us.”

“Yes. It's nothing, I'm sure – but Prince Wrathion is a cautious individual.” The elf smiled. “The Prince deeply apologizes for this affair – as do I - but, for your sake, it would be best if you came quietly... to ease suspicion, of course. We rogues are... a distrustful people.”

It was an invitation as much as it was an order – though Samia went over what the rogue had said. Wouldn't the rogues kill them, if they knew what they were? Wrathion had sent his stupid little force to Blade's Edge to do the same; why was this different? Why bring Samia and the drakes right to him? The fool was endangering himself.

Cautious? Hardly.

She glanced down at the drakes. They were watching quietly, but Samia could still feel their heightened energy – ready to attack at her sign.

But that... that was foolish.

“Fine,” Samia said. “We'll go.”

Feraku gaped at her. “We can't just -!”

“It'll be a quick visit, I'm sure,” Samia interrupted. She smiled at the Night Elf. Fine. They wanted to play games? She could play them, too. “But it'd be best to clear whatever suspicion the Prince has about us. I'd hate to make him nervous.”

“Yes. That would be best,” the Night Elf agreed. Oh, yes, he sounded so amicable – but Samia saw the sharpening of his yellow eyes, the way his lips grew tight. He was expecting an attack.

But Samia wouldn't give him one.

“Come on,” she said. The nether-drakes slowly rose from their seats, Zoya and Feraku staring at her in confusion while Malfas and Azorka stared at the rogue. “Be nice.”

Feraku huffed.

“Lead the way, Night Elf,” Samia said with a guarded smile. The rogue nodded, then turned and began to walk through the crowd. Samia expected that to be a little hard with her big group, but where the rogue went, people hurriedly got out of the way, allowing a large gap for the drakes and her to walk through.

“Samia,” Feraku hissed under his breath. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, taking your advice,” she said, her eyes never leaving the rogue's back. “Going to see the Prince.”

“As a prisoner!”

Samia shook her head. “We aren't prisoners yet. If they knew what I was, we'd be dead already.”

Feraku hesitated, understanding, but looked away. “This is still foolish. The Prince will know who you are when he smells you.”

“That's the plan.”

Feraku made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.

“Listen. Either we go with them peacefully, or try to fight our way out of here. It's not a mistake they cornered us into a crowded inn. If I shift into my true form – that won't be good for any of us. There's more than just pandaren in this tavern. Mortals don't like seeing black dragons.”

“Who does?”

Samia grit her teeth. “Just shut up and don't try anything stupid, okay? Maybe you're right. Maybe Wrathion can tell us where my father is. It's not like we have a damn choice anymore.”

“Unless we fight.”

“Okay. If you want to fight off what are probably a dozen assassins and half of the tavern, drawing attention to yourself and possibly getting injured, be my guest.”

Feraku went quiet. _Finally_.

They'd made it to the door – if it could be called a door at all. Like every other pandaren building they'd seen, there wasn't a door but a circular, open archway, leading out into the night. Two rogues flanked the entrance. Samia regarded them coolly as they left the bustle of the tavern behind.

It was early in the night, so rather than the deep velvet black, the sky was a blueish grey and the stars were dim. Samia easily spotted the other Blacktalons waiting down the dirt road that led out from the tavern and through the rest of the hilly pandaren complex. She counted six, including the ones that had followed them from the door; she had no doubt there were more, hiding away.

“Why do you need such high security for us?” Samia asked, feigning ignorance.

“The Prince is cautious,” the Night Elf repeated. Samia rolled her eyes.

The tavern bustle was but a dull murmuring as the rogue led them to his companions, waiting a yard or two off on the path. Samia smelled gryphon with them. Of course – they planned to fly them off to Wrathion for a quicker route.

As they got closer, Samia saw the gryphons themselves. There was only five, but all of them chortled nervously when the group grew near; one hissed at her. These weren't idiotic birds. They smelled what they were.

“I don't think your mounts like me,” Samia said idly. The Night Elf shrugged.

“We will have to fly to the Tavern in the Mists,” he said. “Please – after you.”

And with some difficulty, they got on the spooked gryphons, a rogue on each – and they were off.

 


	28. Chapter 28

[[ Wow - thank you so much for all the continued support. Your comments have been awesome and it means a heck of a lot. Thank you, thank you! ]]

 

* * *

 

Something brushed up against his face. Coarse and coldly wet, it nudged at his cheek before withdrawing. Sabellian scrunched his eyes and waved his hand, swatting away whatever it was.

It came again, with a bit more force to the nudge. Sabellian grit his teeth and rubbed at his face to get off the _wet_ before waving his hand a bit more insistently. He grumbled, incoherent, and tried to go back to sleep as he put his hand back down. 

Then a third nudge came and went. Sabellian could feel whoever it was hovering right by his face, now. With a hiss, he squinted his eyes open and glared -

Right into the huge, brown furred face hovering in front of him.

Sabellian snarled and jerked back; his head smacked against the headrest, and he threw a clumsy punch. His fist smashed into the face. The  _thing_ grunted and pulled away.

It was only after he pulled himself upright, raising his hand to hit it again, when he calmed enough to realize it wasn't some sort of monstrous thing at all. It was just a big, brown bear who was sitting on its haunches at the side of his bed and glaring at him. The beast made no move to attack.

Sabellian squinted and lowered his hand. He looked the bear over. What – how had a  _bear_ gotten into  _his_ room? He glanced up, but did not see Nasandria nor any of the monks standing guard near his open doorway, and, frowning, he looked back at the beast. It continued to stare at him. It looked very familiar, he realized. Sabellian narrowed his eyes.

“ _Misha_ ?”

The bear rumbled.

“What are you doing here?!” Sabellian looked around the room, pulling himself up, but they were the only ones in the room. No sign of a hulking half-orc hunter. He turned to Misha suspiciously, and, out of habit, disguised his eyes from the orange to an almond brown; he'd done it around Rexxar, and Misha was practically an extension of the orc.

Which raised the question as to why she was here and he was not. Sabellian slouched his shoulders and stared at the bear. Misha grunted. Apparently satisfied he'd woken, she pulled away from the bed and loped to the opposite side of the room. She paused at the small stone table the pandaren had pulled in for a place for Nasandria to sit. The bear grunted, then raised her paw and set the massive thing flat on the table. Sabellian stared, bewildered, until he realized she was trying to get the large stone jug of water set in the center of the table. Just when Misha began to push her weight onto her paw, making the table – and the jug of water – lean over precariously, Sabellian gave a quick, sharp snarl.

“Stop, you damned – _Misha_!” Sabellian was not about to have the bear topple over the table, breaking it, the large jug of water, and his dwindling sense of peace. The bear hesitated. Sabellian got to his feet, wincing only a little as he put weight on his injured side, and, limping heavily, went over to the bear. She eyed him expectantly. Only when Sabellian sat heavily in one of the chairs did he snatch the jug and set it down for the beast, who immediately stuck her snout in the large opening and lapped up the cool water noisily.

Sabellian stared at her. The bear was too busy drinking to pay him any mind. At least her distraction gave him time to think about why she was here in the first place.

Rexxar and Misha were nigh-inseparable. At least usually. Wherever the beast was, the hunter was almost a step behind; the opposite held true, too.

“Why are you here?” Sabellian asked, feeling foolish. He was talking to a _bear_.

But Misha glanced up at him, her jowls streaming water. She grunted, then jerked her head towards him.

“What?”

The bear got to her feet, edged closer, then did the same motion – though this time, she touched her nose to Sabellian's hand before she plopped back down to the ground in an audible _puff_ of fur.

Ugh. Sabellian frowned at the wetness of her nose, wiped off the clinging nose slime off on the chair cushion and, satisfied it was off, eyed the beast, who eyed him right back.

“You came for me, then,” he drawled. “A long journey for a simple visit.”

Misha rumbled. She put the jug of water in both paws and tried to empty it, but only drops of water dripped onto her muzzle. She snorted and let go of it, and the jug clanged to the stone floor, frigid beneath Sabellian's bare feet.

Growing impatient, Sabellian tried again. “Do you have any reason to come to me?”

Misha glanced up at him while she licked the excess water off of her paw, but she made no move to extrapolate through action as she had before.

How did Rexxar manage to communicate with the bear so easily? Whenever Sabellian had seen Rexxar with this beasts – which meant almost constantly – Rexxar always seemed to know what they were thinking. For a brief moment Sabellian wished he had the same talent, before he realized it was better, _quieter_ , to not be able to understand common beasts. He already thought the mortals as stupid in their senseless chattering.

But this was going to be annoying. And it was going to itch at him. Misha didn't look like she was going to leave. What did Rexxar want with him?

“Am I interrupting something?” Came a new voice from the hallway. Sabellian glanced over and drew himself up.

It was only Kalecgos. The blue was staring at Misha rather than him. He looked... better. A little. Rather than plum-purple and black, the bruises on the side of his face were yellow and deep red. If he had healed anywhere else from when Sabellian had hurt him, he had no idea where. The dragon wore concealing clothing.

“We were just having a talk,” Sabellian said, blankly. “What do you want?”

Kalecgos glanced at him. Misha rumbled and spread out her great paws, but the other dragon ignored her in favor of entering the room.

“I only wanted to tell you what I -” He paused. “May I ask why there is a bear here, first?”

“You and I have the same question.” Sabellian sighed roughly. “She's an – acquaintance. Ignore her and she'll ignore you.”

Kalecgos glanced between them. He nodded slowly. “Alright.” Suddenly his eyes grew nervous. Too preoccupied with the mystery of Misha, Sabellian forgot why Kalecgos even had a reason to come here at all. He drew himself up.

“I assume with that expression of yours, you don't have good news for me,” Sabellian said. Kalecgos set his lips in a thin line, paused for a good handful of seconds, and nodded curtly.

“I'm afraid not,” said the blue. “I have tried everything I could with the Eye – like you asked. But there's nothing it can do for you or your family.”

Sabellian curled a set of fingers into a loose fist before forcing himself to relax. He leaned back against the chair. “Sit down.”

Kalecgos paused. The only other chair was the one opposite of Sabellian, behind Misha. Despite the bear's proximity, the blue walked over and, stepping gingerly over the bear, who watched him with a low rumble in her throat, sat down. Misha stopped her grumbles and set her head on the floor.

“Why?” Sabellian snapped, and Kalecogs linked his fingers together. He sat stiffly in the chair.

“Any attempt to rewire it would end in failure,” Kalecgos began, using a slow, deliberate tone. “I did manage to extract some information, but... not the kind you wanted. It told me why I couldn't rework the system to work in your favor.”

Sabellian stared at him. He was aware of the glare slowly manifesting on his face, and his silence was enough to prompt Kalecgos to continue.

“What the Eye does – it is the only thing it can possibly do. It explained that the nature of Old God corruption is bound to the flesh.” Kalecgos eyed him warily. “It's why the Eye rips  _off_ flesh and strings it back together again. What it must have done with Wrathion was to pool the corruption into the exteriors and then... cauterized those off. Then it stitched the purified pieces together.” Kalecgos frowned. “And what it probably began to do with Nasandria,” he added. 

“I know that,” Sabellian growled, feeling an itch grow at the back of his neck. “Is that not why I asked you to change  _that_ outcome?”

Kalecgos shifted in his chair. “Yes,” he said, “but that is just the problem. The Eye  _cannot_ take your corruption in any other sense, so I can't  _change_ the outcome. Either way, it would literally rip off your muscles, Sabellian. It would rip you apart.” Sabellian didn't remember Kalecgos ever using his name besides then. “It's like – hm.” The blue paused thoughtfully; his eyes grew unfocused. “Like a kind of tar, I suppose. You can get it off, but it's going to take some of whatever it's stuck to with it.” Kalecgos looked at him again, with a clearer gaze. “In short, the process would kill you.” He frowned. “Any process would, if the information is correct.”

“So it's a useless hunk of bronze.”

“For you... I suppose so.”

Sabellian plucked one of the cups on the table. “How unsurprising,” he said, his voice feigning a calmness that masked the sudden and fierce anger that had sprung in his body. He released it through his hand, and the thick rock cup shattered underneath his grip. With a scowl he tossed the chunks off to the side where they burst against the wall and separated into smaller bits. “Utterly unsurprising,” he repeated in a slight growl, and then he leaned back in the chair until his legs stretched out in front of him, and rubbed his eyes.

Kalecgos had gone very still. When Sabellian dropped his hand and glanced at the blue, the other dragon frowned at him.

“Nothing clever to say?” Sabellian said, uncaring for the growl in his voice. Kalecgos opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Sabellian spoke again. He could do without Kalecgos's naturally friendly voice right now. “The Titans always seem to fail when their creations need them most, don't they?” He said as he plucked a piece of the broken cup that had flung back onto the table and ran his pointer finger over the jagged edge, pressing hard. Sabellian hardly felt the pain through his rumbling, subdued anger. “They can create ugly, scaled _bat-beasts_ into _dragons_ and yet they seem to fail their creations in all other respects.”

Kalecgos stared at him. Sabellian pinched the piece of rock between his forefinger and thumb and crushed it into two smaller pieces.

“I suppose you're right,” Kalecgos said slowly. Sabellian glanced up at him with a dark look. The blue ran a hand through his long hair and sighed, and suddenly he did not look so chipper anymore. “I enjoy studying their technology, but – they are not the greatest beings, I suppose.”

Not the greatest beings? What a muted way to insult. Sabellian would have snorted had his mood not been foul.

“But still,” Kalecgos continued, unintentionally cutting Sabellian off, “their technology is incredible. I don't think they meant for the Eye not to work for you. It just serves a different purpose.”

“It certainly worked for _the Black Prince_ , though, didn't it?” Sabellian growled, hating the title. _The Black Prince_. A name that was testament to the whelp's self-importance. A beat of hatred pulsed in the back of his head, and Sabellian took a deep breath in a shoddy attempt to calm himself. “You would think the fools would have returned to Azeroth to deal with the Old Gods again,” he said suddenly, redirecting his anger.

“They nearly did.”

Sabellian frowned in surprise.

Kalecgos nodded. “At Ulduar. There was a – Watcher of sorts sent there to see the stability of the planet. As you can imagine, such... stability wasn't very forthcoming.” He smiled, strained in the gesture. “He nearly had the planet wiped out of life because of the Old God corruption he found.”

“And why didn't he?”

“I – what?”

“You're not deaf.”

Kalecgos raised an eyebrow. “Some heroes ended up swaying him into a different frame of mind,” he said. “They're the reason we're sitting here alive and speaking.”

“You, at least,” Sabellian corrected in an annoyed snap. “I live in Outland. I would have lived. A shame,” he grumbled, “I would have enjoyed coming back to an Azeroth for only my family and I.”

Kalecgos stared at him. It was clear the blue was unsure if he was serious or not. Sabellian decided not to enlighten him.

“... Well, the Old Gods would have most likely still been here,” Kalecgos said. “You may not have been as free as you might think.”

Sabellian gave a noncommittal grunt and then smoothed down one side of his goatee. “And so ultimately the Titans are useless, one way or another,” he concluded. “As I said. It is odd they are given so much credit.”

“They _did_ create most life on Azeroth.”

“Life that they cannot even help without shearing them apart or killing them, apparently,” he snapped. “So what is the point of creating something if you can do nothing for its longevity?” Here, Sabellian ran a hand over his face, took a breath, then dropped his hand to the chair of the arm. It was beginning to sink in to him that, with the news that Kalecgos had brought, he, nor his children, might never be free. He was surprised he was _less_ surprised about the news than he was.

But he was not surprised that the corruption bound itself to flesh. Part of him had known that already; after all, as the days passed, a weight had begun to settle in him like a growing muscle. He recalled on Draenor, too, when he had begun to have withdrawal from the Old Gods; he'd vomited black gunk for days. It was not a pleasant memory.

And the brain was really only another organ. Doomed to corruption, to malfunction, like the rest of the body.

“I suppose even the Titans can't do everything,” Kalecgos said quietly. Sabellian said nothing.

Silence stretched between them. The only sound was Misha's gentle snoring beneath Sabellian's feet. He wondered how far the spirit bear had traveled, and how hard, for her to fall asleep so quickly.

“I knew the blasted thing would not work,” Sabellian grumbled after a while.

“You sent your daughter halfway across the planet for it,” Kalecgos responded immediately. Sabellian glared at him. “If you knew it wasn't going to work, why send her?”

It wasn't often anyone tried to directly counter Sabellian. Samia was one of the usual contenders; Wrathion had been – was – the other. Sabellian took a deep breath and was suddenly glad that the Tiger had given him the blessing. He was sure that without it, he would have abruptly lost it, leaned across the table, and tried to rip the blue's throat out as he had tried out in the snow.

“So I did,” Sabellian said. It was difficult to force the growl from his voice, though he could not help the strain in it. He shifted in his seat so he could lean back more comfortably and to also stall in replying. “Let me _rephrase_ ,” he continued. “I should have _known_ it was not going to work.”

“Why?”

“Have you been even halfway listening to our entire conversation, you idiot?” Sabellian asked with a sneer. “The Titans are _useless_ when it comes to _helping things_ without wreaking havoc. I should have seen that this Eye would have been no different. I should have known that. There has never been anything to _cure_ us and I doubt there ever will be. It is only foolish, optimistic thinking.” He paused. He felt the anger sliding out of him, like an engine running out of steam. Again he ran his hand over his face in the new silence. “And such forms of thinking are not fit for a doomed race, are they? It only causes disappointment,” he added bitterly. Even as he spoke, he felt the faraway ideas of one day returning to Azeroth fall through his fingers. By the Titans – how stupid he had been to daydream such things.

“I am sure it sounded like an excellent way to help your family,” Kalecgos said. Sabellian huffed.

“Indeed.” Sabellian paused. “I did not believe it when they told me Wrathion was free of the Old Gods,” he said, thinking back to the nether-drakes reporting to him when he was still in Blade's Edge. How long ago that seemed. “I went to kill the brat, but I was curious if he was truly uncorrupted,” he admitted. “I wanted to see if it was true, you see. I baited Wrathion into fighting me, and I tormented him around that stupid Tavern to test him. I could have easily snapped his neck or crushed him into pieces within a minute of meeting him.”

He sighed roughly. He was not usually one for bouts of self-loathing, but speaking aloud his misgivings made the feeling stir. Had he killed Wrathion there at the Veiled Stair, Talsian would not have died, Nasandria would not have been maimed, Wrathion would not have sent more Agents to the mountains, and he himself would not have fallen into a steady decline of corruption. He would be back home with his growing hatchlings and drakes, if only vaguely content with his doomed life, outcast on the spiked slopes of Blade's Edge.

“And once I realized it was true,” Sabellian continued, his voice a bit more gruff, “I grew intent on finding out how he did it, and so I kept him alive. And thus the _Eye_. The useless, stupid Eye.” He ground his teeth. “Yes – I think a part of me knew it would not work,” he admitted. “That only strengthened when Nasandria told me what had happened to her, and what she had found. But the blasted thing was our last option. What else could I do but blindly put my hope into it?”

Kalecgos tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Sabellian had no idea why he was telling the stupid blue all of this. He should shut up and tell Kalecgos to mind his own business, though Kalecgos seemed to think that apparently impossible to do with his well-intentioned meddling. Perhaps it was the blue's quiet listening that was drawing Sabellian to speak and admit these things; perhaps it was the sudden blow of the Eye's true nature and failure to ever help his family that made the words spill from his mouth.

Either way, Sabellian continued to speak, and he found himself suddenly uncaring if Kalecgos knew or not. “I'm unsure how long Outland has before it breaks apart,” Sabellian rumbled. “But it is only a matter of time until it does. Such a thing will send my remaining family spiraling into the Twisting Nether.” Outland was hardly a planet so much as it was a strung-together assortment of floating earth. It could never hold itself together forever. “And we could never return to Azeroth if we were not free from the Old Gods. I would not subject my children to hearing them; some have not ever been subject to such whispers.”

“Ah,” said Kalecgos, lamely.

“So you see my options are limited,” Sabellian grumbled. “We either die in the second breaking of Draenor or I kill ourselves before we go mad on Azeroth.”

Kalecgos started. “You don't mean to kill your children...?”

“If were on Azeroth to avoid dying on Outland?” Sabellian asked. “Yes. I would kill them before they went mad. Certainly it might be hours, days, months before they succumbed, and at least they would see, however briefly, the world they're so curious about with clear eyes before they died.”

“That's horrible.” Kalecgos did nothing to hide the shock in his voice, nor the disturbed look on his face. Sabellian moved his shoulders in a vacant shrug.

“I have done it before,” Sabellian said as he remembered the senseless babbling of Talsian in the Kun-lai cave before Sabellian had broken his neck. “I would do it three-hundred times over if it meant sparing my children from madness. Even then, I doubt I will have to do such a thing. Staying in Blade's Edge until the second breaking of Draenor seems like a less emotional ending.”

Kalecgos went silent. When he spoke again, he used slow, deliberate words. “That seems to be a harsh ultimatum,” he said.

A flare of anger lit in Sabellian's chest, ignited by Kalecgos's continued ignorance. “Hardly,” he snapped. “It is better to die than to become a monster.”

“Even still -”

“You have little idea what it's like,” Sabellian interrupted. “For nearly my entire life, I was subject to madness. Do not think just because I live in Outland I have forgotten what it felt like to be a beast.” He eyed Kalecgos sharply, then scowled. “Do you know how long I have lived in Outland?”

“I haven't a clue.”

“Twenty-seven years.”

“Oh.” Kalecgos blinked, a bit of comprehension dawning on his face.

“ _Oh,_ ” Sabellian mocked. He locked his jaw, the muscles there growing so tight they began to ache before he spoke again. “More than nine thousand years of my life I was subject to the Old Gods, and only _twenty-seven years_ have I been free of them. Yes. I remember vividly what madness is like. And no. I will not subject my children to the same, as long as I draw breath.” He glared at Kalecgos. “So I will not sit here and be questioned for the choices I make for my children, and not by the likes of _you_ , you pathetic wretch.”

Kalecgos glared at him. For a brief moment it looked as if the blue was going to leave, and Sabellian was glad that that seemed to be the case; but after a moment, the former Aspect of Magic drew in a deep breath and his stiff shoulders relaxed.

“I am sorry,” he said, though his voice, too, was now strained. “It's simply a – hard circumstance to understand.”

“Obviously.”

Kalecgos pursed his lips, but continued. “I was controlled, once,” he said in a quieter voice, and Sabellian raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

Kalecgos shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Yes, but never by the Old Gods. By a dreadord by the name of Sathrovarr the Corruptor, at the Sunwell.” A strange emotion passed over his face. It disappeared soon after. “I was freed, eventually, but it was a terrible experience, not being able to control myself while someone else pulled the strings.”

Sabellian had never heard of this story. He believed the machinations of the reborn Sunwell had occurred when he had still been dealing with the Gronn, and so he hadn't quite cared about it.

“I see,” he said. Well. Perhaps Kalecgos had a little bit of understanding, he admitted, but hardly enough, even still. “You were aware that what you were doing was wrong, then? And you cared that you were?”

“Well, yes. Of course.”

Sabellian huffed quietly. “There is our difference in corruption, then. When you are under the Old God influence, you don't quite understand why you're doing what you're doing. Perhaps you did not like doing horrible things under this dreadlord, and you understood you were being controlled, but I did not understand as much when the Old Ones controlled _me_.” He had hardly ever spoken about this to anyone; Sabellian was unsure if it made him feel any better or not. Not really. 

“The Black Dragonflight always loved to pride themselves on their intelligence,” he continued, voice laced with undisguised derision. “Like my brother and sister. Nefarian thought himself his own master, the ruler of Blackrock, and Onyxia though herself as a queen. It is ironic, then, that their whole lives were guided by a puppet-master, isn't it? And yet, we thought we had free will – or perhaps we thought that was what free will was.” Sabellian rubbed at his eyes before he continued. “The voices were with us our entire lives. We thought them as normal. They were apart of us – a second consciousness. A guide. We never quite thought of ourselves being controlled.”

“You cannot ever comprehend the level of silence in Blade's Edge when my kin and I could no longer hear them. Nor can you ever comprehend the horror when you realize your entire identity and outlook on life was something made up by monsters.” Sabellian glanced at Kalecgos. When he had been speaking, his eyes had grown unfocused, and now he refocused on the silent but attentive blue. “You're going to do me a favor.”

“I -”

“When I succumb to the Old Gods – not if, but when, I am not an idiot enough to believe a talking tiger's blessing will stave them off forever – I will not suddenly begin foaming at the mouth,” Sabellian drawled. “It will be abrupt and forceful, and I will have little knowledge of it happening because I will have conformed immediately to it. I will think I am normal, when really I am not.” He sighed roughly, suddenly very tired. “Our corruption is too deep. It is different for random mortals affected. They babble and scream. No - I will not do that. I will act as if nothing has happened; it will be as if another dragon has reawakened in my body. Similar, but with an edge to him that you will feel – slightly, at first, but you will know something is  _off_ . And once I begin acting like that, you are going to kill me quickly before I kill you and everyone around me.”

Kalecgos frowned. “There's still time for you to escape to Outland,” he argued.

“I have a week or two, at best,” Sabellian said. “With my injuries, I would make it to the Dark Portal in a week and a half. Shall I gamble and try the trip, further weakening myself and thus opening up to a quicker corruption, then be free to wreak havoc on the Eastern Kingdoms? Or should I stay here where I might be watched and killed when the right moment comes?” He grit his teeth. “I had thought the Eye might buy me more time, but apparently not.”

Sabellian remembered what Xuen had said, too, but such advice was difficult to follow through with.

Kalecgos hesitated. Sabellian could see the wheels turning in the blue's eyes as other dragon desperately tried to think of some other way. But Sabellian knew he would not think of one. He had stayed awake at night shifting through his options; there was as little for him as there was for his family. It seemed the universe wanted the Black Dragonflight to exhaust itself into extinction, in one way or another.

“What about Wrathion?”

“That will be taken care of,” Sabellian replied immediately. “The boy thinks I am dead. If I lured him out to me, then I will hardly have to leave this place. Once I have crushed his skull, I will either attempt to fly back to Outland – which will prove to be no doubt impossible - or I will wait to die.”

Kalecgos sighed, an aggravated sound.

“That seems very stubborn,” the blue said. “You should give up the hunt for the Black Prince so you can go back to your family. It might save you a couple of days -”

“I would like nothing more to return to my family,” Sabellian snapped. “But I would like to know that the little monster who forced me here, who has killed my children, is dead before I go back. I would like to know my hatchlings and drakes are safe when I return. Otherwise this would have all been for naught. If I must die because of stalling in my foolish attempts to fully purify ourselves, fine. But I will kill Wrathion first to protect my family in the last way that I can.”

“So you are giving up.”

Sabellian snarled. It woke Misha, who looked at Kalecgos with a growl of her own. The blue looked wholly unaffected, and stared at Sabellian with a subtle look of defiance.

“ _Giving up_?” Sabellian spat. “I would never do anything of the sort!”

“But... you are,” Kalecgos argued. “You're not even trying to think of any other way.”

Sabellian had to force himself not to launch himself at Kalecgos. He gripped onto the arms of the chair so hard he dug ridges in the stone. “There _is_ no other way!” He growled. “Are you truly deaf, or simply as moronic as I had initially thought? Have you not listened at all to me? Every option ends in my eventual corruption!”

Kalecgos sighed. Apparently growing tired of arguing, he dropped the line of conversation and shifted it to their earlier one.“I will... follow through with your favor, if it arises, but I still don't understand how I will know you've gone mad. You say you will act... normal?”

Sabellian only slightly relaxed. “Yes. Have you ever met a black dragon besides me?”

“Of course.”

“I do not mean my Father. His madness was some other creature altogether.”

“ _Yes_ , I have met other black dragons besides Deathwing.”

“Then you have felt their strangeness?”

Kalecgos paused to consider that. Finally, he frowned, then gave a curt nod. “I... suppose I know what you mean. Like a broken sort of gaze. It was unnerving.”

Sabellian nodded. “There you are, then. I assure you, you will be able to tell.”

“At least allow me a few days to think of some other option,” Kalecgos hurried. “There must be some way this can end without you succumbing.”

Sabellian stared at him. “Why do you care?” He asked. This time, unlike with the Eye, he had not tried to bully Kalecgos into trying to help him. The blue looked like he simply... wanted to give aid. Did Kalecgos want something from him?

Kalecgos blinked. Then he frowned again, and paused. “I – well, I simply wish to help,” he said slowly, linking his hands together. “I, uhm, know what it's like to have little options left. I don't know,” he said suddenly, deflating. “I simply wish to help. As I told Nasandria -”

“You've been speaking to my daughter?”

“Ah – briefly,” Kalecgos hurried, sensing the sudden growl of protectiveness. “Anyway, I had told her I think it's quite fascinating to see black dragons as they truly were before Neltharion lost himself. I only wish to help you survive so you can keep on this new – ah, old, I suppose - legacy.”

“As some sort of social experiment, then, if I have heard correctly?”

“That is not -!”

Deciding to humor the blue, he said: “Fine. You can help, then. Or try to. I cannot catch Wrathion's attention when I can hardly get out my bed, yet.” He growled. “When I can walk without much pain, then I will lure him close. That is all the time you have to find some magical fix. Now get out.”

And soon Kalecgos was gone, brimming with annoyance, and Sabellian was alone with Misha. The bear looked up at him with gold eyes as Sabellian rose to slump back into the bed, ignoring her presence, a reminder of home.

\---

They arrived at their destination quickly than Samia thought possible.

That, or she'd grossly underestimated how close the Black Prince was. When the gryphons had calmed enough to take flight, they did not continue west, as Samia thought they would, but instead the Blacktalons had turned their mounts to the east, backtracking on all of Samia's travel progress; what took roughly two days to travel on foot took only hours to sweep past by air. She would have been bitter at that, had they not been going directly to Wrathion.

\- Something that she was already a bit _bitter_ about, but nothing could be done. Fight and transform into her true form, and she would give them away, and alert everyone to their presence. Samia had played with the idea of jumping off the gryphon and shifting, then, to pluck the mounts and their mortal riders from the sky in a blaze of flame, but then the Prince would be wondering where so many of his rogues had gone, and Samia would be without a lead of where said-Prince _was_.

So she stayed, her hands gripped to the feathered sides of the jittery brown gryphon, as they swooped over the Valley of the Four Winds. The night air had been damp, promising rain, against her face.

Maybe Samia wouldn't use reckless force, as her lineage might suggest, but she'd use the  _other_ part of the Black Dragonflight's renown talents: manipulation.

By the time they had arrived on the edges of the Valley, where a sloped mountain rose in front of them, Samia had decided on a vague plan of action.

They'd begun to scale up the mountain, cloaked by mist so thick Samia could hardly see two feet in front of her, when the Night Elf leading her gryphon shot up in alarm. Samia sucked in a breath, expecting some attack from in front of them – but nothing came. The Night Elf only yanked back on the reins of his gryphon so that they hovered in mid-air. The other gryphons and riders followed suit; the animals' wings swirled the mist with each beat of their wings.

“Is there something wrong?” Samia asked. The Night Elf ignored her. He cocked his head to one side as if listening to something only he could hear. The other rogues, concealed by the fog, watched him; Samia could only _vaguely_ see their faces turned to him, at any rate, like specters in the fog.

Finally, the rogue relaxed in his seat. Whatever had come over him had passed, and he turned to nod at the other gryphon riders around them. As if something unspoken passed between them, the others spread kicked their heels into their mounts and sped off – but in an entirely different direction. Rather than continue right up the mountain, they swerved to the south, as if to come up from the other side. The Night Elf spurred on their own gryphon in a pursuit. Their pace was quicker than before, and the rogue's shoulders had gone stiff with surprised tension.

“Well?” Samia pushed, feeling her heartbeat quicken at her wrists. She had not yet recovered from the sudden halt and expectation of attack, and she did not think the sudden veering off-course boded well, either.

“It is nothing,” the elf called back behind his shoulder. His voice came louder than he probably intended, and he immediately went silent and hunched his shoulders in a clear show of coldness. Samia decided not to ask further. She supposed she would find out soon enough, and the rush of sudden adrenaline in her body had, at least, woken her up from her unconscious dozing on the dull gryphon ride.

They did what Samia had expected, and went around the side of the mountain but did not scale up further. For a moment she thought she saw what looked like rugged stairs below her, but the fog continued to conceal the ground and she thought she had imagined it.

The detour took them another ten minutes of flight. No one spoke. Samia did not even hear bird calls, or feel the wind any longer. It was as if they had entered some dead, grey space, floating and going nowhere. She could faintly smell ash, and burned wood.

They must have rounded to the other side of the mountain. Samia had some inkling of it, anyway; she had not tried to tune in too much to the earth, wary, despite her using of it on Draenor, of her father's warnings of it. But she could feel the girth of the mountain rather than see it, and vaguely knew where they were relative to it.

Now they began to climb in altitude again. The fog began to thin. With the thick mist gone, Samia could see more clearly: they had risen over higher mounds of grass-tipped hills that bordered the more rocky mountain, and had begun to level over a small pond beneath them, shining in a strange pearly glow. Trees with toughened bark and shrub-like tops sprouted out from small cliffs jutting out from the higher levels of the hideaway in the mountains. For that's what it was – a hideaway, a naturally chiseled-out group of land that had some manner of livability, for there were mortal-made structures below them, up farther from the pond. There were not many – only a couple of bridges linking some of the more precarious cliffs and two tiny Pandaren huts nestled near the rock.

Samia wondered if this was where Wrathion lived. If so, she was rather disappointed. With his many dramatics, and the dramatics of his rogues, she had expected something more... grand. At least, something a bit more foreboding than a peaceful, tucked away placed in the mountains.

The rogues guided the gryphons down in a lazy spiral, and landed near the pond. The Blacktalon Agents jumped off, and Samia and the nether-drakes followed suit. They seemed to be the only ones up here. Odd. Samia, too, had expected some unhappy “welcoming” party, but the stillness suggested otherwise. She looked around and crossed her arms.

“So...?”

“I apologize for the change of course,” the Night Elf said, looking quite put-off as he frowned in a vacant sort of confusion. “There has been – complications at the Veiled Stair.”

“Oh. Like?”

“I am afraid I cannot tell you.”

Surprising. Samia smoothed down her stiff bangs and then worried at her lower lip as she looked around more closely. Was this some trap? It did not seem to be, she thought. But these were rogues; the same lot had managed to poison the most powerful nether-dragon alive without hardly touching him. She would be so stupid as to keep her guard down around them.

“This is what they called the Secret Aerie,” the rogue explained.

Samia said nothing. One of the rogues was staring out at a small cave entrance that the pool's water drained in from. She glanced into it and saw, thanks to her excellent night vision, it led into a tunnel. She filed that information away. Perhaps if they could not escape by air, they could escape by foot.

If they had to escape at all. She glanced at the nether-drakes. Their smooth, bright hair was now ruffled by the windy ride. Malfas was tense with a clear, sour worry and Azorka the opposite; Feraku did not look at her and Zoya was surveying the Secret Aerie as Samia had been a moment before.

“So the Prince will meet us here?” Samia asked.

The rogue nodded. “Yes. Give him time. He will be here shortly.”

And so they waited.

\---

Wrathion hurriedly looked himself over in the mirror.

His face was drawn. The skin below his cheekbones had sunken in, so it'd looked like he'd aged years over the course of nearly two weeks. He already knew what his hair looked like – dry and brittle at the touch. Wrathion had hurriedly stuffed most of it underneath his turban. Not even his bangs showed.

Gods, he thought. He looked awful. Even his eyes drooped. Such was the price of sleeping for what seemed like an hour a night, day after day after day.

“They're ready for you, my Prince,” Left said from his right. Wrathion said nothing. He tried to stand taller than he already was, but the rigid-backed effect did little to erase any of the exhaustion on his face. Not even trying to shift certain parts of his skull would work; even in dragon form, he looked sickly. There was only so much you could hide in a disguise.

“At the Aerie, then?” Wrathion asked distractedly as he pulled away from the mirror then tugged at his fine leather sash. The Tavern was dark, lit only by a couple of oily lanterns on the wiped-down tables. They lit his Agents' faces in a muted golden glow, as if only the higher edges of their faces had been painted over in yellow while the rest remained in a dark shadow. Skull-like.

“Yes, my Prince,” said Left.

Wrathion glanced to the doorway. It was too dark outside to see anything. He grabbed the dagger on top of his bench, a long-bladed weapon with a curve like a scimitar, and tucked it into his belt.

“Out of all days,” Wrathion complained as he gave himself one last miserable look in the mirror, “and they come _today_.”

“The Dragonmaw have yet to arrive,” one of his other Agents said, a short human with closely cropped black hair. “We can take care of -”

“I know what we can take care of in time,” Wrathion snapped. Left glanced at him. Wrathion ignored her. He was in no mood to be _eyed_ , and not be Left, who'd been _eying_ him the whole week as his patience had drawn thin with lack of sleep. His mood had certainly been boosted when his champions had come back, but not enough to return to a semblance of normalcy.

And now the Dragonmaw were coming – right when Wrathion was about to have his little family gathering. He'd caught wind of the orcs' arrival thanks to his Watchers stationed in the southeast part of the Valley. They'd seen the riders swoop up from Krasarang – possibly from Domination Point – and had immediately sent word back to Wrathion when they'd seen them heading to the Veiled Stair.

And that had been when the agents he'd sent to get the suspected dragons had contacted him, reporting they had gone into air with the targets.

This had induced another nightmarish situation which Wrathion honestly wanted no part of.

Honestly. What had been the chances? He'd thought he'd assuaged Madam Goya enough, but the viper always seemed a step ahead of him. Wrathion had quickly ordered his agents to take the dragons – _somewhere_ else. Anywhere but the Veiled Stair. They had landed at the Secret Aerie, which was fine enough. A bit too close to the slope than he had in mind, but fine. It was a quiet place, secluded, and Wrathion would deal with the situation with a bit more quickness than he'd initially anticipated.

“You know your orders,” Wrathion said dismissively to the Agents in the room. There were eight of them; half would hide in the shadows as back-up while the others would directly accompany Wrathion. “Go.”

“Uhm – should I go, my prince?”

Wrathion glanced to the side. The agent that had fought the other dragons at Kun-lai, the ones that Wrathion had sent his assassin to kill, was slumped in one of the chairs. The slash on his chest had been patched up, but the human's face was heavily bruised. The idiot had said he'd somehow fallen down the Path of a Hundred Steps after he'd sent the assassin off.

“No. Stay here,” Wrathion said. An agent that looked as bad as the human did wouldn't instil much fear in anyone, let alone another dragon. He looked away and out to the door again.

He knew he was hesitating. Dragonmaw and Madam Goya aside, Wrathion didn't want another meeting with a family member to happen like it had last time on this mountain. His cast arm, which he'd draped a sash over to hide the bandages, twitched in ghost pain, remembering Sabellian's grip.

But it would be different this time. Wrathion wouldn't be taken by surprise.

It might turn out that this woman wasn't a dragon at all. That he'd made a mistake.

But he really doubted that.

Again, Wrathion glanced at the mirror. But it was not the only reason, the vague fear of meeting again his family. He had been so gung-ho when he had first seen the dragon in the blood images – her being here made it so much more easier! - but now that she was here... a pang of sudden doubt had gripped him as his rogue had reported in. He had killed Sabellian because he had hated Sabellian, he realized, suddenly, staring at himself in the mirror, a skeletal version of himself. For no other real reason besides that.

Perhaps he could let his rogues alone deal with the party. He could stay here. Separate. Unattached. Perhaps he could some other solution. It was no longer personal; this dragon had not tortured and tormented him, nor had she killed any friend.

The sudden thought made him scowl and he looked away. What was he, a coward? This _dragon_ – this _black dragon_ – was a lingering taint of a race that should have been wiped out save for him. Killing her – killing them all - would be his duty to Azeroth. And to his own legacy.

“Well? Go!”

The rogues that would flank the outward posts evaporated. Then it was only Wrathion and four others.

He glanced at Left. She watched him.

“Let's get this over with,” he said, shifted into his dragon form, then swept out of the open door and into the cool air, headed towards the eastern Aerie.

\---

 

It had been the shaking of the building, the squatter one down the slope, that had first caught Rexxar's attention. He had been cleaning his axes when he heard a muffled crash, and upon looking up he had seen short building quake. A pandaren had stumbled from one of the building's open side-entrances, clutching a bleeding hand.

And again the building had shaken. Though the front of it was shaped like a roofed hallway, the latter half, jutting from the back, was a housed square with no seeable entrances. Apparently the only way in was through the first part of the building. Rexxar wondered if that was wise – for whatever was inside that room wanted to get out, and the multiple pandaren trying to keep it in, like the one with the bleeding hand, could only escape whatever it was through one entrance.

He watched with a vague interest. The struggles of the pandaren were more entertaining than anything else on the inactive slope, at least, which had quieted when night had fallen. That was odd. It was often the opposite for taverns, though Rexxar was not fool enough to believe that the building father north was anything but a regular tavern.

The building shook a third time. Something screamed from within, muffled through the wall. It was nothing human. Rexxar stood straighter in his crouch. Had Misha been here – or even Spirit – he would have sent them closer to investigate out of small curiosity. Clearly, some animal was inside the back room.

Another pandaren exited down the side of the roofed hallway. She was accompanied by a mountain of a pandaren, easily twice the size she was, who she was speaking to. Wearing a light purple robe, she looked otherwise unassuming save for the self-satisfied smile on her face.

The wind shifted, like a breeze against his skin. Rexxar paused, cocked his head, then looked up – to see a great shadow fall above him.

It passed him by. Rexxar crouched lower behind the small mound as he watched the flier. Easily a quarter the size of the building, the creature landed with a resounding _crunch_ only yards away, and even in the darkness Rexxar saw what it was: a red proto-drake, decorated with aggressive, blocky symbols in black paint. 

Its rider dismounted as the beast fell flat on its wings. No – not one rider, but three. Their ashen skin, the color of rough slate, blurred their bodies in the nighttime darkness.

Grey-skinned orcs riding a dragon? Dragonmaw. They could be nothing else. Rexxar had dealt with them briefly, once – and once was enough for his tastes. He had instantly disliked them. Where he used mutual respect and companionship to gain the friendliness of his beasts, the Dragonmaw used beatings and vicious tasks of obedience to bend creatures to their will. It had left a angry twisting in his gut, and he had been glad to leave them.

Another shadow passed ahead, and then a third. Two other proto-drakes landed near the first; one of them was so large it must have been twice the size of its brethren, though only one rider dismounted the red and gold-striped beast.

Rexxar counted six orcs. They saluted the solo rider, a female orc whose hair was shaved save for down the center of her head, where the remaining locks were bound in sparse bundles like a row of spikes down her scalp.

Rexxar edged closer. He was close enough where he could hear them speak. The elderly pandaren had stopped talking to her large companion when the first proto-drake had landed, and she watched the now-approaching party of Dragonmaw. She clasped her furred hands in front of her.

The pandaren opened her mouth, but the leader of the orcs was quicker.

“Where are they?” She asked in a voice like grating rock.

“A warm welcome to you as well, Warlord Zaela,” the pandaren said. She had her mouth set in a firm line but the rest of her face feigned a vacant sort of politeness. “I'm glad you have come so quickly.”

Warlord Zaela? Rexxar believed he'd heard the name before, but he knew little of her.

Warlord Zaela grunted. Behind her, three of the Dragonmaw held the reins of the three beasts. The proto-drakes, which Rexxar knew had a reputation for viciousness, were surprisingly calm.

“Better for the Dragonmaw to have them than any other buyer,” Zaela grumbled, then repeated, more insistently: “Where are they?”

As if in answer the building rumbled, more viciously than it had before. Zaela and the orcs looked up, but the two pandaren didn't flinch, though the floor must have shifted beneath their feet.

“Mister Chu, please have them show the items out,” the elderly pandaren said, and the heavy-set bodyguard – what else could he have been? - bowed his head in a deep respect before he withdrew, disappearing into the side of the building.

“Two, you said,” Zaela commented when Chu disappeared.

“Two. Wonderful specimens. They were difficult to transport, but I am sure you can manage.”

Zaela said nothing. She glanced over to the back-half of the building, where the shaking originated. Rexxar followed her gaze. Oh – odd. It seemed like a secret doorway was opening from the side of the backroom; he had not even noticed the seams in the wood paneling. Excellent craftsmanship, then, for his hunter's eye to not catch them.

The secret door swung open at the middle into two doors. It was a large entrance, coming up to the full height of the side of the building. Rexxar quickly saw why. Three pandaren in their heavily brimmed hats walked backwards out of it, each holding a set of thick rope. They strained and pulled. One's shoulder was bleeding. Something within roared, a bone-shaking sound now that the walls could no longer muffle it – and then emerged a proto-drake, its scales a deep brown-black and the coarse hair at the sides of its plated head an obsidian. It pulled back and yanked in a desperate attempt to free itself as the three heavily-set pandaren led it out of the back-room. Its crawling walk was strained.

Once out of the room the beast attempted to lift its wings, as if in an attempt to fly away, but Rexxar saw that heavy weights had been tied by leather onto the proto-drake's more delicate wing-webbings. No wonder the creature struggled to even walk. It could hardly even lift its wings to lope forward, let alone fly, and it soon gave up and tried to pull away again.

They led that one off to the side. The Dragonmaw proto-drakes watched the newcomer with a dulled sort of interest, though one of them paid little mind as it groomed the barbed tip of one of its wings. The largest proto-drake – the gold-striped one – rumbled.

Another proto-drake was led from the room. This one struggled less than the other one had, even though it was larger. Its maw was tied, but this one had a blindfold wrapped around its blocky head. The two pandaren to lead it set it near the other still-struggling drake.

“Two black proto-drakes, directly from Northrend,” the elderly pandaren announced. “A young but healthy pair.”

Zaela walked forward towards the beasts. Rexxar itched to grab his axes. The clear pain both the drakes were in was evident; a creeping sort of anger curled in his gut.

“They'll do,” Zaela said dismissively, though if she was trying to come off that way fully, she failed at it. Her dark eyes were lit with an aggressive sense of enthusiasm as she looked the black proto-drakes over.

“I have six eggs for sale, as well,” the elderly pandaren said. Zaela glanced back at her, wrinkled her nose, then eyes the wild drakes again. “Sixty thousand a piece.”

“Fine. And for these?”

“A black proto-drake is exceptionally rare. They usually sell for -oh, eight hundred thousand a piece? But for my returning buyers, and for two, I'll settle for five hundred thousand for one.”

“Make if four hundred thousand.”

The pandaren smiled. “I'm afraid I'll go no lower than five hundred. There are too many buyers who would easily buy one for nine hundred... I feel I am already being gracious with my offer.”

Zaela ground her teeth. Though she was not looking at the pandaren, even from where he was, Rexxar could feel her aggravation directed to the elder. Finally, after a long period of silence, the Warlord nodded, then turned to the merchant. “Fine. We'll take them and the eggs.”

“Excellent. Mister Chu, please have the items prepared for transport. Please, my dear, come inside so we might speak of your immediate payment.”

“Do you have any leads on the others?” Asked Zaela. “You said -”

“I know what I said, my dear,” interrupted the merchant. “And your timing is truly remarkable. But let us speak in private.”

Zaela walked back to her group of silent Dragonmaw. “Give me a moment, Goya,” she snapped, and the pandaren – Goya, apparently – nodded, though there was an annoyed flash in her eyes as she retreated into the now-still building.

“Five hundred thousand a piece,” growled one of the Dragonmaw once Goya was out of sight and earshot. “A million gold for two drakes? And not even _dragons._ ” The orc spat. “But proto-drakes. Where are the dragons she promised?”

“They'll make up for the gold,” Zaela said. “A breeding pair will do that and more. With the six eggs we can easily have enough drakes ready for the Warchief when the time comes.”

Another Dragonmaw grunted. “We should be able to catch the drakes ourselves.”

Zaela gave the orc a vicious look. He glanced away, down at his feet. “Do you wish to hunt dragons or serve the Warchief, Lokrak?”

“Serve the Warchief, Warlord.”

“And would you rather complain about the price of gold or have weapons ready for war?”

“Have weapons ready for war, Warlord.”

Zaela snorted. She drew herself up, glanced at their new purchases, now being harnessed with further bindings, then nodded. “Gold is meant to be used. The Warchief will be pleased with his new additions.”

“The idiot Blackfuse paid that and more for his scorpion monstrosity,” one of the orcs added. The other Dragonmaw shifted, as if insulted by the very reminder.

“We will serve the Warchief greater than the _goblin_ and his machines will,” Zaela said. “Tuklar, help the pandaren with our new beasts.”

The orc in question saluted, then went off to the proto-drakes.

“Let's get on with it,” grumbled Zaela. She motioned for half of the orcs to stay with their tamed drakes while she and the rest headed up into the building.

One of the orcs glanced at their new mounts. She snorted.

“At least these animals are dull. The dragon Okrut captured would do well if he wasn't so smart.”

Another orc grunted in agreement while another shook her head.

“You've never ridden a real dragon. It's good to ride a smart animal. You only have to tame them to obey you, first. Then their intelligence is yours.”

The first orc to speak laughed, a harsh and quick sound. “Yes! And that is going so well with him.”

Zaela glanced behind at them. They fell silent, and then the group went into the building.

Rexxar paused. The night again went quiet, save for the grumbles of the tamed proto-drakes and the snarls of the bought ones. The hunter touched the edge of one of his axes, hanging at his side.

Should he follow them? He did not like the Dragonmaw being here. If the Black Prince was somehow in league with this “Goya,” the results could be disastrous. Could it be why he was bringing the western group of dragons to the Stair? Why else? Rexxar supposed Wrathion would simply kill Samia and the others immediately, but if he hoped to make a profit...

No. Rexxar did not like it. Better to see what Goya and Zaela would speak of than to be blind-sided by some unforseen threat in the black dragons' plans.

Rexxar moved forward. Though his skin was pale in comparison to the Dragonmaw, he knew how to move when he didn't want to be seen. He grabbed a hold of his axes to stop them from swinging and causing noise and began around the mound he'd been hiding behind, making a loop behind the Dragonmaw waiting outside and then around to the opposite side of the building.

The tavern to the north was dim. Rexxar ignored it. He inched closer, thankful for the small hill that jut out near the building's other entrance. It gave him a place to hide, and it was closer to the building than he had been before.

Zaela and Goya had already begun to talk. Rexxar could see them fine; a row of small, circular oil lanterns hung across the back wall. Now Rexxar saw the opening into the back room, to the left of where Goya, Zaela, and the Dragonmaw stood.

The large pandaren, Mister Chu, had returned to stand behind Goya. Zaela stood with her arms crossed.

“They are here?” Zaela was asking.

“Yes,” said Goya. “I believe I added that with my message, dear.”

“Then where are they?”

Goya linked her fingers together and placed her hands in front of her. “Unfortunately, I've yet to have them, but worry not for that. They'll be yours soon enough.”

Zaela grit her teeth. “Tell us where, and we'll get them ourselves.”

Goya smiled. “Patience, my dear. I have worked very hard to get you your grand prizes. Black proto-drakes are nothing in comparison to the rarity a black dragon would bring, am I correct?”

Zaela said nothing. The two stared at one another. No doubt, Rexxar thought, that Zaela wanted to get the dragons for herself so she wouldn't have to pay Goya even more gold, but Goya was certainly not about to give the information up.

But this confirmed Rexxar's suspicions: somehow this Goya had learned of the dragons being brought up on the mountain. It had to be Wrathion's doing. Who else would know?

And if they were here already – he cursed himself. Had Samia arrived while he had been distracted by this charade? Goya seemed to hint at that. Rexxar began to draw back – he had to find them – when Goya spoke again, catching his attention.

“The whelp won't give them up,” said Zaela. “Let us force him to.”

“Oh, you don't have to worry about that,” assured Goya. “I have done all the necessary dealings with the Prince. He'll be quick to work with us. And if not – well.” She smiled. It was a warm smile, odd and disorienting on her face when her eyes were dark in their sockets. “I am sure he can come to some agreement.”

“And how do you know they're even _here_?” Asked Zaela in a more aggressive tone than she'd been using before. “If this is some trick -”

“No. No trick. I'm afraid I am not that conniving.” Goya waved her hand. “Our self-appointed Prince has a spy or two in his ranks. He may give gems, but I can pay double. Rogues are a wily group.” She smiled again, and it was not warm. “I know where the dragons are. We pandaren value patience. Please, dear, let us speak of the first payment in the backroom while I have your prizes delivered. It would be such a waste for you to ambush them when I already am.”

Zaela hesitated. She glanced to the side, and for a moment, the orc seemed to be looking right at Rexxar – but her eyes were unfocused. Finally she ground her teeth, the muscles at her carved jaw clenching, and, without a word, swept into the backroom. The other Dragonmaw followed.

Goya paused. She eyed the entrance to the back room, then glanced back at Mister Chu, stoic behind her.

“Well?”

“Half an hour, Madam Goya.”

“Oh, good, good.” She sighed as she began towards the door. The next time she spoke, Rexxar strained to hear her, as she'd lowered her voice to a dull murmur. “Let us be so lucky to have the dragons devour them before they go back to the Vale, hm?” She cocked her head to one side. “But only after we have been paid in full.”

\---

Samia heard the beating of wings far before anyone made their appearance.

True to the Night Elf's word, they had not waited long. Maybe ten minutes, she guessed, as she rubbed her gloved hands together and looked up at the wing beats. Seeing no one, she frowned, though she turned to look around as the many rogues that had escorted them to the Secret Aerie began to fan out into premeditated positions, making a sort of encased square around them.

Ten minutes, at least, had allowed Samia to go over her plan of action. She hurriedly went over it again as she waited for the Black Prince to make his appearance.

She would act calm, allowing Wrathion to get lulled into security, before asking about Sabellian. Outright attacking him would be no good; they were outnumbered three to one, as it was already, and Samia did not know if Wrathion would bring other fighters with him. It was better to manipulate the information out of him.

After that? That would be largely dependent on Wrathion's answer, because Samia was not about to be killed here by a whelp and some hired mortals.

Movement up near the closest bridge to their left caught her eye. Samia stiffened, then drew herself up.

Flanked by two rogues, the boy walking down the bridge to reach their pond was no doubt Wrathion – and he was almost everything Samia expected.

He looked short in comparison to the two women at his sides, an orc and a worgen, and his clothes were fantastically decorated. Samia eyed the gold-embellished purple pants, the coiled turban, the half-tabard of black scales with its red gem at the center. Samia almost had to smile at the open, burning red of the other dragon's eyes. Obviously Wrathion wanted everyone to know what he was.

But as he grew closer, taking clipped steps, Samia saw the sunken features of his young face. She had not counted on him to look so sickly.

Wrathion stopped some feet away. The entire time he'd been walking, his eyes hadn't left hers. Wrathion had not even given the nether-drakes, standing at Samia's sides, a passing glance.

And so this was the child that had tormented her family so: a dramatically dressed, sickly boy. A whelp by the age of two, surrounded by hired bodyguards and brimming with an undisguised self-importance. Maybe Samia _had_ expected something like Wrathion truly was, but – to see him in the flesh was something altogether. Where Wrathion had been a word, spat by her father before he had left and growled by the rest of her brood, he now stood real, looking less demonic as his actions suggested and just a whelp who'd managed to shift into a human form so early in life. Maybe this would be easier than she had initially thought – but then she remembered the physical power of the rogues again, and Samia reminded herself not to go easy, or put her guard down. Wrathion did look unassuming, at least to her, but it'd be stupid to act leisurely. There had to be a reason he had so much apparent power.

Wrathion stared at her for a moment more. Then he smiled, drew himself up, then tilted his head to one side, oddly bird-like.

“I'm truly sorry we had to drag you out all this way,” he said in a silky voice. The undertone of smugness had Samia immediately wanting to throttle him. “I am sure my friends treated you nicely?”

“If you call being intimidated into flying all the way out here nice,” Samia replied, careful to keep her voice flat.

Wrathion hummed as if in agreement, but he never looked away from her, and his eyes didn't lose their intensity.

“It was all _very_ necessary,” the Black Prince said.

Silence. Samia and Wrathion stared at one another. She tried not to put her hand on the hilt of her sword.

Was he going to make a move, or just stare at her like a beast in a zoo that he wanted to shoot inbetween the bars? Wrathion had to have picked up on her scent, which Samia hadn't even bothered to hide. Any doubts to her identity had been erased.

Wrathion broke eye contact. Samia relaxed.

He looked at the “draenei” in surprise, as if seeing them for the first time. Malfas fidgeted. Zoya glanced at Samia, who gave the nether-drake a small shake of her head. _Wait_.

“You know,” Wrathion said, “ I have seen _many_ draenei, but never quite with some of your... _interesting_ colors.” He looked at Zoya. The veridian thinned he lips. The Black Prince was slender, and looked like he had seen better days, but he was, Samia realized, demandingly intimidating in a way Samia couldn't quite place. It may have been how he held himself, or it may have been in the look in his eyes – the undercurrent of either mischief or maliciousness. It reminded her of Sabellian, in a way.

“Though, it's odd,” Wrathion continued. “A draenei with green splotches?” He said, still staring at Zoya, who had had trouble first shifting into her new form thanks to her bright green coloration versus the blue skinned draenei. “Or a draenei who is as thin-boned as you are,” he added, glancing at Feraku.

And then, Samia understood what Wrathion was doing.

The whelp knew exactly what they all were. He was just _playing_ with them.

Samia grit her teeth. Of course Wrathion was. He thought them trapped and already taken care of, so he could afford to be smug.

“If you're done making fun of my friends,” Samia interrupted, “I'd like to go to this Tavern I've been hearing about. We're all very tired from this impromptu visit, and I'd like some rest.”

Wrathion looked almost taken aback that she had decided to play along. He grinned wryly, almost excitedly. Was this truly a game to him? Samia frowned at the smile. It reminded her a bit of Alacian. That disturbed her.

But Wrathion soon dropped it from his face and adopted a morose expression. “We can't,” he said, and he sounded honestly upset by it. “There are some visitors there that neither you nor I want to see.”

“Either way, this is all very inhospitable for a make-believe Prince.”

Wrathion started as if she had struck him. He stared, a bit wide-eyed, and then glared. His amusement in their “game” was gone.

“Princes do what need to be done – no matter the cost,” he said with more hostility. “Your _comforts_ don't matter.”

“Do they?” Samia felt her calm mask sliding. “I'm sure actual princes think more about the consequences of their actions. Mistreating their guests is something a prince might second-guess.”

“What would happen at the Tavern is the same thing that will happen here,” Wrathion snapped. “It hardly matters! I am just hurrying the process along before something worse happens. It is not quite my fault.”

“Not your fault!” Samia exclaimed. She stared at Wrathion with a mix of utter disbelief and revulsion. “This entire fiasco is your fault!”

Wrathion frowned. “Like I said. I am doing what needs to be done. Any action I take is guided solely by my duty to do so. You can't _really_ blame me.”

Samia almost grabbed her sword. _Almost_. She flexed her hands instead, and took a deep breath. Wrathion watched her sharply.

The game was over. Samia was already tired of talking through a veiled argument. Both she and Wrathion knew very well their words weren't about the Tavern at all.

“Yes,” she said, calmly, “and I'm sure attempting to kill innocents isn't to blame, either?”

Not attempting, she thought. Ryxia was dead, and four nether-drakes.

Wrathion frowned again. He hesitated, surprising Samia, but when he spoke his voice held no doubt and remained self-assured. “I'm afraid I know the task is grizzly,” he said, “but it simply needs to be done.”

“You really mean it, don't you?” Samia asked as she stared at Wrathion. Her plan fell away. She hadn't expected for Wrathion to infuriate her so quickly with his easy answers. She grit her teeth, glared, and spoke again. “And you _really_ want it, huh? Couldn't do it with a whole band of assassins, so you poison the entire water supply at Blade's Edge?”

Wrathion furrowed his brows. He opened his mouth, closed it, then gave a cursory, confused glance over his shoulder at the orc bodyguard before he looked at Samia again.

“Uh – yes,” he said. Wrathion collected himself and the sudden, lost look on his face was gone. “Yes, I do mean it. The Black Dragonflight can only remain with me as its sole member. I can't have my corrupted family members flitting about.”

Samia stared at him. “What?”

Wrathion blinked. It seemed like he thought she ought to know that already. “I'm killing you to assure the safety of Azeroth,” he said. “It's really nothing personal. At least not anymore.”

“ _Nothing personal_?” Before Wrathion had time to reply, Samia took two steps closer, and this time she did put her hand on her sword. The orc and worgen raised a crossbow and readied a dagger, but Wrathion waved them off. “You're killing my family because we're corrupted?”

“Yes. You -”

“We were never going to return to Azeroth!” Samia shouted. “We are fine in Outland! Why would we ever come back here, if we knew we'd fall mad again within – who knows how long?”

Wrathion looked unfazed – as if he'd heard this before. “You're still a lingering threat,” he said. “I think it's safe to eliminate threats, even idle ones, don't you?”

“Like the one right in front of me?”

And Wrathion gave her a strange smile. “I suppose so, in your case.”

This had caught Samia completely off-guard. It wasn't a secret that she and her brood had been confused as to why another family member was killing them, and Samia had thought that he had wanted power – for if he was, truly, the last, then he himself would be the sole leader of the Black Dragonflight and carry on its dark legacy and strength.

But this – this was something completely different. To kill Sabellian's brood because they were corrupted... to eliminate them because they carried the Old God taint, despite them having done _nothing_ wrong in the thirty years they had been in Blade's Edge? Despite the fact that Sabellian had, in his own way, treated mortals with even the slightest amount of fairness and Samia, the same?

Her head reeled in confusion and anger. Samia glared at this smug prince, this hateful child. What would a _hatchling_ do with being the last, really? Did he not want the company of others like him?

Apparently not, if he killed them. “We're _innocent_ ,” Samia reiterated.

“Are you really, though? I am sure you have many stories about your time on Azeroth!” And before Samia could retort, he added: “Your father wasn't very innocent.”

Samia's breath hitched. _Wasn't_. She had not missed that. She relaxed and eyed Wrathion closely.

“Once, he was lieutenant of Deathwing's armies,” she said slowly. “So once, he _wasn't_ innocent. None of us were. And neither are you.” This was her chance. “And you've met my father?”

Something in Wrathion's face changed, but before Samia could discern the look in his eyes, Wrathion blinked and it was gone. “ _Sabellian_? _Oh,_ of _course._ I could never forget him.”

The whelp's voice had grown strained. Angry.

“But who are you? His daughter, clearly.”

“I'm Samia,” she said, annoyed Wrathion had spoken before she had. Her name had him pull back a bit in surprise, as if he recognized it.

“Well, Samia -”

“And where _is_ my father?” Samia interrupted.

“Oh,” Wrathion said, and here he waved his hand, dismissively. “He's dead.”

Before she knew what she was doing, Samia shot out her hand and her fist collided with a _crunch_ against Wrathion's face.

The Black Prince reeled backwards. Blood streamed from his nose.   
His two guards lifted their weapons for a kill. Samia grabbed the hilt of her sword with a snarl and -

“No! Stop!”

It was not one of the drakes, not one of the rogues, but Wrathion. The orc shot him a disbelieving look as he stumbled to a stop, clutching his bleeding nose. The sash that had been draped over his arm had fallen to reveal a slim cast down his forearm. His hand holding his face already was dripping blood.

“My Prince -”

“Shut up!” Wrathion straightened. He dropped his hand and wiped the steady stream of blood trickling from his nose, dark red and already bruising from the harsh punch. Samia hoped she'd broken it.

Wrathion opened his mouth, curled back in a snarl, to speak. Samia was faster.

“You're lying.”

Absurdly, Wrathion laughed, a quick, high-pitched, disbelieving sound. “Everyone is always so quick to think that I lie. I actually lie very little, and only when it serves me the best.” His voice was a bit nasally with the blood no doubt pouring down his throat from his nose. “Do you think I would really lie about killing your Father? What good would that do me, _Samia_? I told you the truth, something that should be commended, and this is what I get for it!” He gestured wildly to his bleeding nose, which he rubbed again.

Wrathion glanced at the blood at his hand when he pulled away and glared up at her. “I would not be standing here wasting my precious time with _you_ if your Father was still rampaging across Pandaria!”

Samia was only dimly aware of her quickened breath, and how her knuckles on the hilt of her sword went white. It had to be a lie. Wrathion, this... this _child_ , could never _kill_ her father.

“You're lying,” she repeated with a hissing hostility. “My father wouldn't allow himself to be killed by you.”

“Wouldn't _allow_ himself?” Wrathion repeated. “Obviously not! But the dagger slid in _easily_ enough.”

The edges of her vision with white-hot with wrath. She began to advance, uncaring for the raised crossbow of the orc, the trigger a second away from shooting her, and the unsheathed daggers of the worgen. All she cared about was the bleeding prince between them, and ripping his head off of his body.

Wrathion looked alarmed. “ _Wait_ , I must explain -”

 _“Explain what_?” She snarled. She felt the energy of the nether-drakes light up behind her. “How, _somehow_ , a little hatchling no older than my youngest brothers and sisters killed _my father_ for no other purpose than to feel _better_ about himself?!”

Wrathion snarled. Gone was the collected coolness, the smugness, from his face. Whatever he was going to say evaporated in his mouth.

“I _had_ to kill him!” Wrathion had risen his voice to a hoarse shout. There was a wild anger and desperation and hatred all intermingled in his rising voice, and pebbles around his feet began to vibrate. “I had to kill him, and _I must kill you!_ It is _my duty!_ And I must see it through until the end, no matter what I do to get there!”

Samia began to draw her sword. A rogue behind Wrathion, not one of the bodyguards, drew his dagger. The orc holding the crossbow had been about to fire right at Samia's chest– but then she whipped her head back to stare at the rogue with narrowed, questioning eyes.

Another rogue, off to the side, drew her own sword. Her comrades around her shot her as baffled looks as the orc had to the first. Samia didn't care as to why, and nor did she see the third rogue, hidden on the cliff side, aim his bow. They were brave to draw their weapons first before their still comrades, Samia thought, but -

Three things happened at once.

First, the orc toppled over, an arrow lodged firmly in her side.

The rogue to draw the dagger jumped up just as Wrathion turned with a start and a look of horrified alarm at his fallen bodyguard. The blood elf set his knife against the Black Prince's neck so tightly that it drew blood, and snapped something low at his once-Prince so that Wrathion went very still but snarled in outrage.

The rogue with the sword leaped at Samia. Samia whirled away, but she was clumsy in surprise and was nearly cut across her arm, save for a small nick where the blade had just managed to touch her skin. The nether-drakes shifted behind her, and at nearly the same moment mettle great nets, as if from nowhere, descended over top of them. A terrible scream of electricity shot through the binds and the struggling nether-drakes went still and moaned in intense pain.

“Oh, my dear,” called a voice from above, and Samia whirled back around. The rogue with the sword danced away and went to face her former comrades, only now drawing arms. The entire thing could not have lasted more than ten seconds. “It seems you've delivered just what I wanted.”

Wrathion cried out in anger. “ _Madam Goya,_ I will -!”

“You are outnumbered five to one, Black Prince,” the smooth, elderly voice continued in her raised voice, and only then did Samia see the pandaren walking down on of the higher bridges. Samia looked around. Encircling the entire Secret Aerie were a line of other pandaren in heavy brimmed hats, or other mortals in the same garb. They had been ambushed, crept up on when Samia and Wrathion had nearly come to blows! “And your best rogue has an arrow in her side. What you will do is tell your other rogues to put down their weapons. I am only here for a few trifles, not for you.”

Wrathion glanced at Samia. His throat bobbed beneath the rogue's dagger, and his face was pained with some sort of inner struggle.

And then he mouthed _run._

Samia let go of her sword. She did not need to be told twice. She had an idea what these trifles were, and the world around her was growing dizzy with realization -

She paused as she stumbled back, trying to focus on shifting. The world was growing dizzier. This was never her normal reaction to something. Samia glanced down at where the rogue's blade had just touched her, and saw that the gentle little scratch was green.

She had been poisoned.

Samia snarled, and even that sounded weak already. Wrathion watched her up until the elderly pandaren was on the last rocky platform that led down to the pond, and the other black dragon turned his head to glare. Goya made no move to walk down.

“I am so sorry to have had to intervene,” Goya said, “but I was afraid you would not work for me as well as I had hoped. Now – let us all calm ourselves...”

If she said anything else, Samia didn't hear; she dropped to her knees as her eyes went dark, and fell into a deep unconsciousness.

\---

Ke'zol, Overseer of the Big Blossom Excavation, watched the right hand of his Warchief descend into the dig.

It was not a good wait, and so it felt like a long one, as he watched Malkorok advance. Flanked by two Kor'kron, the warrior had decided to wear his full plate mail, which gleamed with a pearly sheen from the moon's glow. His face was twisted in a disapproving sneer.

Ke'zol straightened and saluted sharply when Malkorok was a yard away. Malkorok returned the salute, but with less grandeur. He stopped some feet away. Ke'zol always prided himself on his own impressive height, but Malkorok made him look fragile in comparison.

“Greetings, Malkorok,” Overseer Ke'zol said. His throat stuck together with the words, and he forced himself not to cough. The dust and dirt from the dig had long since dried his voice and eyes. He swallowed. His tongue felt like a wad of sand rolled in his mouth. “We're ready for your inspection.”

“Good.” The other orc looked around the dig site, his head held high. “You have come far.”

Ke'zol straightened up with the praise. It was not often Malkorok said a kind word to anyone, and in response, Ke'zol saluted again. “For the Warchief,” he said, and Malkorok glanced back at him.

“Show me, then,” Malkorok ordered.

Ke'zol was quick to turn and begin to lead the Blackrock orc through the digsite. Goblin shredders, claws caked with dirt, stalled in their stomping to let the group of orcs pass. Ke'zol had since given the goblin workers strict orders to let them be; it wasn't a secret the level of animosity Malkorok had for members of the Horde that weren't orcs, and the overseer did not want the Blackrock orc to be distracted by meddling goblins.

Ke'zol led Malkorok to one corner of the Big Blossom Excavation. There, the workers had set a pile of all the various artifacts they had found in the still-lengthening tunnel they had dug into the slope. Its contents were random. There were ancient scrolls, brittle with age, they'd found in an unearthed metal chest. Life-sized, golden mogu statues stood at attention with stiff polearms at the wall's edge. There was stranger things, too: broken pieces of thick yellow tablets written in a language no one could understand, and globules of clear glass that, when struck, sparked with random color.

Ke'zol stopped in front of it. He looked the objects over and felt a small knot of worry in his gut. He knew – they all knew – that what they had found was not what Malkorok, nor Garrosh, wanted to see. They wanted weapons. Powerful objects that could sway the war, like the unearthed Divine Bell. But Ke'zol and the goblins had found nothing of the sort, and he worried for Malkorok's reaction.

He turned and nodded to the Blackrock orc. Malkorok walked past him to more closely inspect the artifacts; Ke'zol felt a bead of cold sweat slide down the back of his neck as he watched his superior walk down the line.

“There is more inside of the tunnel,” hurried Ke'zol as Malkorok remained silent and stone-faced.

“And is it more useless _junk_?” At once Malkorok kicked one of the glass spheres. It shattered in a small burst of color, lighting up the orc's dark armor for a mere instant. With a speed that did not seem possible for his girth, Malkorok whirled on Ke'zol. “Well?”

It took harsh willpower not to avert his eyes. “We haven't yet reached the main objective,” Ke'zol said, hurrying to defend himself as Malkorok took a step forward so that he loomed above. “The goblins detected a wall -”

“And how far and how long will it take you to reach this wall?”

Another bead of sweat rolled down Ke'zol's neck. “The goblins -”

“The _goblins_ ,” Malkorok repeated with a snort. “And what did your _goblins_ say?”

Ke'zol shifted his weight. “That we'll reach the wall in a week,” the overseer explained. But the reply only worsened the scowl on Malkorok's face, and Ke'zol again tried to defend himself. “The digging conditions are difficult. They refuse to dig faster. A strange presence -”

“Do you think the Warchief has time to worry about the fear of gobins?”

“No, Malkorok.”

“Then push the goblins harder.”

“We do. We are,” Ke'zol said gruffly. “But -”

“Then you will reach this wall in less than a week,” Malkorok replied smoothly.

Ke'zol hesitated – but upon seeing the sharpening of Malkorok's gaze, he gave his third and sloppiest salute. “Yes, Malkorok.”

But the question that had been boiling at him since he was assigned to the excavation rose. Ke'zol knew it was his chance to ask it, but he was careful to frame it as a comment; doubting the decisions and actions of the Warchief in front of Malkorok himself would be license for some form of punishment, if not death.

“I don't know what we'll find when we break through the wall,” he said. “Or if it's going to be the same junk we've been finding.”

Because how could have Garrosh known the exact location of where to dig? He'd clearly instructed the Cartel to drain the small, sacred lake and dig underneath it until – _something_ was found. The chances that they would find _anything_ in this random spot were minimal. But they had found these artifacts... and the yet-to-be-reached wall. Ke'zol had thought it a testament to his Warchief's skill but with the uselessness of the items they'd since uncovered, he had begun to doubt that the wall the goblins had seen through the dirt with their complicated and explosive technology hid anything of value to Garrosh's war plans. Ke'zol guessed it was only some forgotten Pandaren or Mogu artifact vault like Mogu'shan, minus the magical technology.

Malkorok surprised Ke'zol by thoughtfully pausing to consider the comment. Finally, he huffed and drew himself up.

“I will tell you something,” he said. “Between us.” To punctuate his meaning he cast a suddenly bitter look around to the milling goblins, who were doing their best to stay as far away from the party of orcs as possible. Ke'zol understood Malkorok's meaning; their words were between only the orcs.

“You _will_ find something here,” Malkorok promised, dropping his voice so that the words were nearly a growl. “The Warchief was led here by _fate_. By _destiny_. There is something down there the Horde is meant to have. _Our_ Horde.”

Ke'zol nodded. It was the best answer he was going to get, so he may as well go along with it. Garrosh _had_ automatically known where to dig, he reminded himself. If he had been led here by some intuition, some semblance of fate, than so be it. His doubts quelled, Ke'zol said: “For the Horde.”

Malkorok looked satisfied with the answer. He moved away so he could glance at the open cave entrance to their right. Lit on either side with ugly torches, the warm light from the fire and the cold from the full moon high above did little to illuminate the darkness within the tunnel.

Ke'zol didn't even like looking at the thing. He hadn't been lying when he had told the Blackrock orc that the goblins feared what was inside of it – though he'd left out even he had grown warier by the day the more they dug deeper. It felt like a weight upon his chest whenever he grew close. A wrongness that he couldn't quite place. He wondered if Malkorok felt it.

But Malkorok gave no indication of it. He nodded to himself. “We will reach the wall in four days,” he said.

“We?”

Malkorok looked at him. “Do you think the Warchief sent me all this way to _inspect_?” He asked. “No. I will come with you when you break down the wall.”

Ke'zol nodded sharply. That was unexpected but not entirely unwarranted. Malkorok would help spur the goblin workers better than Ke'zol and the other orc overseers ever could. Perhaps they _would_ get there before the week was up.

“The Golden Lotus,” Ke'zol suddenly remembered. “Taran Zhu plans to attack when the season is over. That's in two weeks.”

And then Malkorok smiled. Or at least, Ke'zol _thought_ it was a smile. It looked more like a sneer on his face.

“Good,” he said. “But we will draw him here far earlier than that, Overseer Ke'zol. Far earlier than that.”

 

 


	29. Chapter 29

 

Kalecgos received a visitor, and one he hadn't been expecting.

Sitting in his room, high up in the Temple, the curtains open so he could watch the falling snow and the hearth unlit, the Blue had been racking his mind for some sort of fix for Sabellian. He scribbled down ideas, but crossed them out in frustration when he realized they wouldn't work only a moment after. He mumbled about Sabellian's stubbornness and cursed the useless Eye. If only Sabellian wasn't so focused on killing the Prince...

There was a knock at the door. Kalecgos looked over. A monk bobbed her head at him.

“There's a visitor for you, Kalec,” she said.

“Oh – send them in,” Kalecgos replied with a small frown. He doubted it was Nasandria; she never really asked to visit him, and just came when she wanted to.

The monk nodded and left. Kalecgos returned to shifting through the mound of papers. Most of the letters were concerned with the Horde activity in the Vale. Notes requesting back-up from the Shado-pan Garrison in Townlong and Alliance from Lion's Landing were numerous.

It was cause for concern. Clearly the Horde were not expected to pull out of their wreckage any time soon, and Kalecgos worried about what a battle in the Vale could do to the landscape – not to mention any allegiances with the pandaren peoples.

Kalecgos looked up when he heard footsteps. The monk returned, and with her a gnome, clothed in a golden robe with her hair braided and set into buns on the side of her face.

“Chromie!” Kalecgos rose from his seat, half-startled, and nodded at the Bronze dragon. Chromie smiled back at him in good-natured greeting. “It's been a while.”

Chromie thanked the monk. The pandaren nodded to them and left, and Chromie swept into the room.

“Hello, Kalecgos!” She greeted. “It _has_ been a while. How are you?”

“I'm fine.” Chromie took a seat in the small wooden chair near the small table in the room, though she turned it so she faced Kalecgos. “How does the Bronze Dragonflight fare?”

“Decently,” quipped Chromie. “Though I would think its' struggles are nearly the same as the rest of the Dragonflights.”

Kalecgos nodded. He doubted any of the Dragonflights would recover from the after-effects of the Cataclysm any time soon, especially from what he'd seen from Alexstrasza.

“I heard Nozdormu left the Caverns?” Kalecgos asked, repeating what Alexstrasza had told him. Chromie gave a half-hearted nod.

“More or less. It isn't something we aren't used to,” joked the Bronze. “Soridormi and Anachronos are taking care of the Caverns, now.”

Kalecgos nodded. He wondered how much had changed at the Caverns themselves, since the Bronze had lost much of their powers. They clearly hadn't abandoned their responsibilities like the Blues had, but it must have been difficult.

“Well. That's good.” Kalecgos looked at her tabard. “And is this new? I'm afraid I don't recognize the symbol belonging to any organization.”

“It's the Timewalkers tabard,” Chromie explained. She plucked at the infinity symbol off-handedly. “Pretty neat, isn't it? I'm rather fond of the colors.”

“I haven't heard of such a faction.” Kalecgos leaned forward in his seat and cocked his head to one side, studying the infinity symbol. It glittered. “What -?”

“Oh! Well, it's relatively new,” Chromie chimed in. “We made it a – oh, I don't know. Maybe a year after Deathwing was defeated and our powers were lessened. It was a bit difficult for some of the more uppity Bronze to warm up to the idea of asking mortals for help, but, really, they've all been a great boost.”

“Boost to what?”

“Watching the Timeways, of course,” Chromie said. “It's a little embarrassing to admit us Bronze aren't – uhm – 'all there' for guarding them anymore, but... you understand.”

Kalecgos understood. The shock of his lessened powers had rocked him, among many others. It didn't surprise him that the Bronze Flight felt the same.

“At least the mortals can help,” Kalecgos said. “They're not given as much credit as they should by our kind.”

“Oh, I agree.” Chromie smiled at him. “They're so useful! I enjoy them. I'm glad we've both always agreed on that.” She looked around the room with a hum. “But the Timewalkers are actually the reason I'm here. I'd like your advice with something.”

Kalecgos hesitated. The abysmal failure with the Eye had him doubting that he could give good advice, but... “Well, go for it. I'll try my best to help.”

Chromie looked back at him. “We've only had a few members in Pandaria. Most of us have been at the Caverns of Time, trying to stabilize everything. But one of our members alerted us to something – and it's incredible! It's an entire island off the coast of the Jade Forest.”

Kalecgos frowned. He pulled up the map of the Forest in his head and came up blank as to where the island could have been. “You mean the cloud serpent island?”

“Oh, no no, this is something completely new. It actually only appeared – I think two days ago?”

“ _Appeared_?”

“Yes! Just like Pandaria out of the Mists. We wouldn't have thought anything of it if Kairoz hadn't been so close when it shifted into our timeline. He picked up on its time-shifted elements and – well, it was such an enigma the Time Keepers all wanted to look to check it out.” 

“I – what? What do you mean?” Kalecgos leaned forward in his seat. “It shifted into  _our_ timeline?”

“Well – sort of. At least, we think so... that, or out of some pocket of our own timeline. We're still not very sure.”

Kalecgos paused. He frowned. “So an entire island... appeared out of time off the Jade Forest?”

“Mhm. It sounds incredible, and it's even  _more_ incredible when you're on it. There's so many lost artifacts, architecture – and the animals are enormous, like they've been fueled by some sort of energy.”

Kalecgos began to think of just why Chromie was here when she said  _artifacts_ . That was apparently his slowly-growing specialty, it seemed... “That sounds very interesting. I'm somewhat surprised it showed up -” He paused. Hadn't Jaina said something about portals refusing to stabilize on the coast of the Jade Forest for the past week or so? Perhaps that and this strange island were linked. It would make sense. 

Kalecgos cleared his throat. “Perhaps I'm not so surprised. Pandaria becomes more and more mysterious as it's been explored, rather than the opposite.” 

Chromie grinned. “So I've heard! Anyway, here's what I wanted help with.” She reached into her small bag and withdrew a fist-sized pink crystal and a gold coin. The end of Kalecgos fingers twitched, and he glanced down at them with a small frown before he reached forward to grab the offered items. Immediately upon taking them, his fingers twitched again. The crystal and the gold were magical – clearly. 

“They're from the island,” Chromie said as Kalecgos brought both the crystal and coin closer to inspect them. “Kairoz thinks they're infused with some sort of time-essence, but I wasn't really sure, so I wanted a second opinion.”

“Well, they're definitely infused with something.” Kalecgos ran the pad of his thumb down the crystal. Little sparks of energy reacted to his touch, invisible but easily felt, like tiny static shocks. “Who is Kairoz?” He asked as he began to look over the coin. 

“One of us Bronze. Decent dragon.” Chromie arched her head up in an attempt to see what Kalecgos was doing with the crystal and coin, held high above her high level. “So, what do you think?”

“I'm not sure.” Kalecgos frowned and lowered his hands. “Give me a moment.” 

He closed his eyes and retreated his energy inward. As he had done with the Eye, he pushed his energy through his fingertips and into his palm, seeking to identify the power of both crystal and coin. The static shocks grew more intense. Kalecgos ignored them in favor of focusing on two new feelings pressing up against his own energy – one light and the other behind it, heavy. “Well, perhaps your Kairoz is right,” Kalecgos said as he goaded the two sources of energy back into the crystal. “I'm not a Bronze, but I believe that there's some essence here I haven't run into... which would be Time, of course.” That must have been the light one, wispy and fleeting. The heavy... “There's a bit of arcane, here, as well, as if it's the backbone of this stranger energy, but it feels a bit odd – at least it's nothing like my arcane.” He paused, searching for the right way to describe the energy pushing up against his palm. “I suppose like Green dragons' life energy.” Kalecgos opened his eyes. “Why bring this to me? I would think a Bronze might be better at discerning this than I.”

Chromie hesitated. She outstretched her hand and Kalecgos gave her back both crystal and coin. “Well... I figured Kairoz was right. He's always had a knack for that sort of thing. I'm afraid my senses for checking Time are a bit worse, and most of the other Timewalkers are just regular mortals.” She shrugged and turned the crystal in her hand. “I figured you would know, anyway – and I'm glad I did! That life-energy bit explains some things.” Chromie slipped the gold piece into her bag and looked back up at Kalecgos. “See, the Timeless Isle – that's what everyone's calling it – used to be some shrine for the pandaren. There's enormous statues of all the Celestials, and other things besides. But it's like... well, as if nothing's changed, ever. Not even the sun moves! We've never seen anything like it. One of our druids didn't even detect any sort of new growth in the foliage, meaning the plants that grow there now are the same ones that have been there since – well, who knows when.”

Kalecgos frowned. “So it's frozen in time.”

Chromie nodded, but her brows were bunched together and she frowned, perplexed. “Yes, and that's amazing in itself, but – we've never seen living things prosper as they do on the Isle. Time itself can freeze, sure – the sun doesn't move, the seasons don't change... but for an organism to prosper in that sort of environment, to never age or grow sick or weaken? That's odd.”

“But if the Time there is frozen, I don't understand why the animals  _would_ grow at all. What's the enigma, then, there?”

Chromie stared at him. She smiled suddenly. “Oh! You know, I don't think you've ever been to the Caverns.” Kalecgos shook his head. Chromie hummed. “Well, that's it, then. In the Caverns you see little pockets of frozen Time. They mostly lead up to the protected Timeways. There's some animals going down those frozen Hallways – and they're frozen too. See?”

Kalecgos shifted in his seat. “So... usually, the animals freeze in place when Time freezes?”

“Yes! But on the Isle, they don't. They live and  _move_ . We think the only way they're able to grow is through the Time essence that you felt in that crystal. They're honestly a bit scary.” 

Kalecgos had to smile at that. Chromie had chosen an unassuming mortal form, but she was one of the most respected members of the Bronze Dragonflight. For her to think of these animals as scary was a little amusing. 

“So that other energy you picked up must be why the Isle is so different,” Chromie continued. She eyed the rock. “I wonder what it is.”

“I wish I could help,” Kalecgos said. “But I don't know what it is, either.”

“Oh, you've helped a lot.” Chromie put the rock in her bag. Kalecgos wondered if she was being sarcastic, but the Bronze dragon had a pleased look on her face. “Maybe we don't know what the energy is, but I  _knew_ something had to be different than just regular Time essence. It didn't make sense otherwise. Kairoz will be so annoyed with me with proving him wrong! Hah.”

“Well, it seems like an amazing find, Chromie,” Kalecgos said. “I can't imagine what it's like.”

“You should visit sometime,” Chromie responded. “I'm sure you'd love it.”

Kalecgos smiled. “Maybe when I have – pardon the pun – but time. An Isle where one could never get sick sounds -”

Kalecgos paused. He did not even close his mouth. Chromie raised an eyebrow at him.

“Kalec?”

“Chromie – you're sure Time is completely frozen there? That nothing can change at all?”

“Uhm... yes? Barring the animals getting bigger from the energy, but... no, nothing can really fluctuate.”

“What if someone was sick?”

Chromie paused thoughtfully. “From what we've seen so briefly from the Isle, they wouldn't get  _better_ , but they wouldn't get worse, either, I don't think.”

Kalecgos hesitated, then smiled. “How would you like to meet someone?”

\---

“Here. Take it, you blasted thing.”

Sabellian tossed down the last of the cooked deer the pandaren had given him a half hour before onto the floor. Misha, who had been staring at him the entire time he'd eaten the large meal and making rumbling noises, leaped up and snatched the meat. With a great  _crunch_ she bit through the bone, and muscle and seared skin shredded beneath her teeth. Sabellian made a face, wrapped his hands around his now-cold tea (honestly – how did the pandaren keep anything warm for long in this frigid climate?) and took a sip as he watched the bear eat.

He hadn't gotten closer to figuring out why she was here. She gave no clues – being a  _bear_ – and the half-ogre hadn't shown his face. The only thing that made sense was that he was in Pandaria. But then again, that didn't even make sense in itself. And quite honestly, he hoped it wasn't the case. Allowing Rexxar to see him like this – and showing him what he was – would be disastrous... nor did he want the half-ogre to see him lose his mind, either. 

His ramblings were interrupted when he heard footsteps.

Sabellian looked up. Standing in the doorway was Kalecgos. Sabellian frowned, annoyed, and stood up from the table.

“What do you want?”

“I have a visitor,” Kalecgos announced. Sabellian drew himself up, and before he could speak Kalecgos strode into the room. The dragon moved off to the side to reveal a follower: a blonde-haired gnome in a gold robe.

Sabellian stared. He and the gnome made eye contact. The gnome startled.

“Chronormu,” Sabellian drawled, a small, annoyed growl bubbling in his voice. He eyed the Bronze dragon and then glared at Kalecgos. “I thought you were smart enough to realize I wanted to stay hidden and not share my appearance with other dragons.”

Kalecgos looked between them. “You know her?”

“Oh, sure, we know each other,” Chromie piped up. She had not taken her eyes off of Sabellian, wide-eyed and alert as she looked. “I think it was at Dragonblight, after that blizzard? Or was it – wait, no. That's later. I think.” Chromie's eyes went hazy before she shrugged and went back to staring at him. “Wow! I thought you were dead.”

“So did many others,” Sabellian snapped, redirecting his glare to Kalecgos. “Is there any more surprise visitors, Kalecgos?”

“No.” Kalecgos darted his gaze between the two again before settling it on Chromie. “I believe Chromie has something that might help you.”

“Am I to assume it's some other magical artifact?”

“It's an island,” Chromie said. She took a couple steps into the room and looked at Sabellian's leaning stance, favoring his good leg, the fading bruises on his face and the thick bandages peeking out from his shoulder from underneath his shirt. She raised an eyebrow, looking more curious about the wounds than amused, and her lack of comment on them was relieving. “It...  _might_ help with your situation. I thought Kalecgos meant some other type of sickness when he suggested it, but I guess Old Gods are some sort of sickness.”

Sabellian eyed Kalecgos. The Blue should have at  _least_ asked him before telling Chromie everything. He looked at Chromie again. “An island.”

“Yes. But it's not a regular island. I was just telling Kalecgos about it.” Chromie looked up as Misha crunched noisily on one of the bones, blinked, then continued. “It's an island where Time is basically frozen, but the animals and other living things there can move and live. It's nothing not even us Bronze dragons have seen before... and we've seen a  _lot_ .”

“Incredible,” Sabellian said dryly. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“Well, the animals that are there are the same ones that were there however many years ago,” Chromie explained. “It's the same thing with the plants. They don't get sick or weaken.” She stared at Sabellian expectantly. “If my guess is correct, any mortal – or dragon – who would go on the island would have the same effects. Their sicknesses would freeze... and so would everything else, really.”

Sabellian understood, but he snorted. “This island is still a part of Azeroth. The Old Gods would still find me there.”

Chromie hesitated. She glanced at Kalecgos in a way that suggested she had run that by him beforehand before she shrugged. “It  _is_ on Azeroth, but – well, I'm not totally sure if they could make you any  _worse_ on the island. Like I said, biology just... freezes, more or less. Kalec here helped identify some sort of life-energy that might be the key to that strange puzzle.”

“It could help,” Kalecgos interjected earnestly. “The Old Gods, like Chromie said, may not be able to make you worse there... and the Eye said that the corruption was based in the flesh, not the mind, so it is some type of physical sickness first and foremost.” 

“This seems to hinge too much on conjecture for my tastes,” Sabellian said. 

“Still, what have you got to lose?” Chromie gave him a quick smile. “I could take you there myself.”

Sabellian paused. He looked between both dragons and frowned. “And where is this island?”

“Off the coast of the Jade Forest,” Chromie answered. “It's not too long a flight.”

Sabellian wondered if he was strong enough to fly at all. He looked, idly, at Misha, who was finishing the last of the deer bones. “It would be a temporary fix,” Sabellian rumbled. “If the island were to stop my corruption, it would do nothing for me once I left.”

Kalecgos shifted his weight. Perhaps he'd thought the same thing. “Yes, it's a temporary fix, I agree – if it works at all. But you will get no better in this temple.”

“I think I know that, fool,” snapped Sabellian. He took a deep breath and snorted smoke. “Fine. I will try it. I tire of this room, and a change of scenery would be welcome.”

“Good! We can leave whenever you'd like,” Chromie said. “I'm due to return by the end of the day, though, so... between now and then.”

“I will have to get my daughter,” Sabellian said. And his robe and pauldrons. The monks would  _have_ to give him his articles if he was leaving for good, now. Thankfully. “Then we can leave.” He snorted again. “A temporary fix is better than no fix at all.”

“Why can't you just fly back to the Dark Portal? With how big I remember you being, that wouldn't be too long of a trip.”

Sabellian prickled, a small itch growing at the back of his head, but he took a deep breath and forced it down. “As I  _explained_ to  _Kalecgos_ , I am too weak to make the trip, and too far in my corruption. I am sure I would succumb once I arrived at the coast of the Eastern Kingdoms.”

Chromie blinked. “Hm. That makes sense. But there's always the portals.”

“What?”

Chromie looked at Kalecgos, then looked at Sabellian again. She gave the two a strange look. “The portals at the Vale of Eternal Blossoms.”

Kalecgos widened his eyes. “Oh, I'm a fool.”

Sabellian hissed under his breath. “Are you going to fill me in?”

Kalecgos looked at him apologetically. “At the Vale, the Alliance and Horde use two of the shrines there for their bases in Pandaria – other than the military bases at Krasarang, of course. At least in the Shrine of Seven Stars – the Alliance's shrine – I know that there's a room of arcane energy they use to make portals. I've been there before to watch the process when I was visiting – ah, well, I've seen the process. They have a schedule, you see. Mages create portals to different cities, all over Azeroth, so that the Alliance heroes can use them.” He paused. “They have one to Stormwind, which is closest to the Dark Portal, but they even have one to Shattrath.”

Sabellian narrowed his eyes. “And you failed to bring this up before, how?”

“Honestly, it never even occurred to me,” Kalecgos mumbled. “I never use the portals, and only saw them once.”

“They make them twice a day,” Chromie said. “Sometimes the schedules change, but I can find out the ones coming up for you.”

“How do you know all this, Chromie?” Asked Kalecgos.

“Well, we had to figure out some easy way for the Timewalkers to get back to the Caverns for report,” Chromie said. “The portals sure are convenient.”

Sabellian said nothing. A portal straight to Shattrath, and right in the Vale! He wished someone had brought that up far earlier. Perhaps he did not have to die anymore. He smoothed down his beard with his forefinger and thumb and glared off at nothing in particular. While home may have been a small flight's-trip away, he still had to take care of Wrathion. As he had told Kalecgos, he was not about to limp home like a kicked dog with a maimed child and a dead one without having completed his task. As long as Wrathion was alive, his family was in danger.

A plan began to form in his head – one that looked much more promising than his earlier one, where it ended in his death. “Then I will go to the island,” Sabellian said. Chromie frowned at him – surely she expected him to want to go to the portals first, but he was not going to tell her about Wrathion – and nodded. “And there I will wait until I know the schedules of these portals.”

“I'm sure I can find out quicker than that,” Chromie said, “but if you want to go to the island first, then I'll take you there.”

“Safety measures should be taken,” Sabellian rumbled, glad she had decided not to ask questions. “I do not want to lose myself while I wait for your dawdling.”

Chromie nodded. “Whenever you're ready.”

“Give me two hours. Then we shall go.”

\---

Three hours later, Nasandria stood outside the temple, accompanied by Sabellian, Chromie, Kalecgos, and three monks to send them off.

At least, send Chromie, Nasandria, and Sabellian off. Kalecgos would be staying at the Temple of the White Tiger for a couple more days, and had come out to see the others leave. 

Nasandria hugged her arm around herself. It was snowing lightly. She missed the dry heat of Blade's Edge... something she might be seeing sooner than she'd hoped, with what her father had told her since the Bronze dragon had arrived at the temple.

She eyed Chromie. The unassuming gnome was chatting with Kalecgos. Sabellian seemed to trust the dragon, for whatever reason – or at least, trust as much as he was able. Nasandria had a suspicion that he only did because this island seemed like their only route as of now.

That, and the portals. Nasandria couldn't believe Kalecgos had forgotten they'd existed. A portal to Shattrath, which wasn't too terribly far away from Blade's Edge, right in the Vale... Nasandria hugged herself tighter. The quicker they went home, the better. 

She watched her father. Sabellian now wore his regular outfit again. The plate-snakes shimmered coldly in the snow, and their lit flames glittered. The robe had been patched and cleaned with expert hands, and the snakes shone. It had been the searching of the outfit that had delayed their leaving by another hour. Apparently the monks had lost track of it, resulting in Sabellian losing his temper... but not enough to cause any damage. 

At least they'd found it. Sabellian looked all the more better for wearing it. The frail, broken human Nasandria had watched in that closed-off room, with all of his bandages, bruises, and sunken features, was masked below the familiar clothes. It was comforting to see her father's intimidating stance and flare again, though Nasandria tried to ignore how he stood very still and how his shoulders sagged. She knew that if he moved, his limp would be heavier than even that little blond prince's. 

“Nasandria?”

She jumped and looked over. While she was watching Sabellian, Kalecgos had somehow sneaked up to her without her realizing. “What?”

“I'd just like to wish you good luck,” the Blue said. Snowflakes were in his hair. “I don't know if we'll see each other again.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks.” She looked back out over the Temple grounds. “What do you know about the island, anyway?”

“Honestly,” Kalecgos began, “not very much. But I trust Chromie. I'm sure you'll all have a better chance there.”

“My father will, at least,” Nasandria corrected with a flat voice. “I'm not the one going crazy.” She felt the end of her missing arm itch, and ignored it. 

“Yes... I suppose you're right.”

They fell silent, and watched the grounds sprawled out below, bustling with monks. Out of the corner of her eye, Nasandria saw that one of them was trying to speak with Sabellian. She also noted that the open pagoda across the bridge was nearly completed, though the one far to the left that Kalecgos had crashed into was still a framework, but a heavy one.

“I was wondered what you wanted me to do with this,” Kalecgos finally said, and he swung off the satchel hanging from his shoulder that Nasandria hadn't noticed he'd been carrying. “I want to give your bag back, of course, and the little automaton, but...”

The bag was rounded and full. Nasandria didn't have to ask what was inside. She glanced over at Sabellian, still talking to the monk. Shouldn't  _he_ decide? He'd probably make the best choice. He always took care of things...

Then again, a small part of her thought, she'd been the one to get it, to struggle over the sea with it, and suffer from it. For once, Nasandria realized she found herself confident enough to make a decision without her father's guidance or criticism.

“Keep it,” she decided. “Do whatever you want with it. I don't think we need that thing anymore.”

Kalecgos nodded. Gingerly, he reached into the bag and scooped out the Eye. It glittered in the cold. 

Kalecgos handed her the bag and Nasandria slung it over her shoulder. She hesitated. “Thanks for trying, at least,” she said.

“I only wish I could have actually done something worth while,” admitted Kalecgos with a small shrug. He tucked the Eye of the Watchers in the crook of one of his shoulders. “I'll keep it safe, should any of you ever need it for... any sort of reason.”

“I doubt -” Nasandria paused. Xuen had come out of the main Temple behind them and sat at the entrance. Sabellian, too, glanced at the Tiger, but then abruptly looked away. He eyed the Temple grounds, then looked at Nasandria. 

“It's time to go,” he called, and Nasandria glanced back at Kalecgos.

“Well. Thanks,” she said, and then hurried off to join Sabellian.

Another came up to Sabellian, but this one was decidedly less quick in stride. Misha lumbered up and sat down next to the elder dragon, her thick coat bristled with snow. Nasandria eyed her. As she had been avoiding Sabellian for the past couple of days, it was only an hour ago that she learned of the bear's odd appearance. 

Chromie smiled good-naturedly as Nasandria joined them. “So. Is everyone ready to go? We'll head out directly east. The flight isn't a terrible one, but we might meet some more buoyant winds over the sea.”

“I believe we can all fly,” Sabellian said dryly. 

Chromie glanced at him, then back up. Smoke enveloped along her small form and elongated, and with a gentle crackle of magic she transformed into her true form. Her bronze scales glittered. Where Nasandria had four horns, two stretching from each side of her head, Chromie had six – or perhaps more, as there was a fine, silky hair sprouting from behind the horns and around her cheeks and hid everything underneath them. She was a bit larger than Xuen. 

Nasandria shifted. She grunted in relief as she stood in her natural form. The mortal disguise had its practicalities, but being cooped up in it for too long was suffocating. She snorted and stretched out.

Sabellian, however, had not shifted yet. He'd scrunched his brows up and glared at the mountains. Nasandria sat and watched him. He shot her a glare, and she looked away.

“Whenever you're ready,” said Chromie, and Sabellian grit his teeth. When he finally did begin to shift, the smoke came slowly, starting up from his feet. His chest heaved. If he was trying to show he was not in pain, he was failing at it.

It was a moment after the cloud of dark, ashen smoke evaporated and Sabellian, too, stood in his true form. His head hung low, at first, but he was quick to pull it up, though Nasandria saw his eyes scrunch up with the effort. She glanced at his patched up wounds. The two deep harpoon wounds had left the onyx scales where they'd buried into bent and broken, and in some areas the dark skin beneath flashed a deep pink of scar tissue. Where Chromie shone, his hide was scuffed and nearly sickly in appearance. Nasandria wondered just how “easy” this flight would be.

“Go,” grumbled Sabellian to Chromie, and the Bronze raised her sandy wings. 

“Goodbye, Kalecgos,” Chromie called, and Kalecgos bowed his head. She glanced at Xuen and bowed her own, and the Tiger nodded at her, though his icy eyes quickly found Sabellian's. The two stared at one another until the proud fins along Sabellian's neck fell nearly flat, and he looked away again.

“Remember my blessing, son of Deathwing,” Xuen said, “and the advice I have given.” And then, much to her surprise, the great Tiger looked at her and smiled. “And you, Nasandria – continue to persevere as greatly as you have. You are stronger than you realize.” 

Too startled to say anything, Nasandria only bobbed her head in an awkward bow.

“Let's be off,” Chromie said, and raised her wings higher. She leaped into the sky and circled, and Nasandria followed. She heard Misha rumble beneath them, and turned to see the bear trying to weigh down Sabellian's paw with her entire weight – though the elder dragon snorted in annoyance and pushed her off to the side before he, too, joined them in the sky.

 

 

\---

Throat scabbed and temper flared, Wrathion pushed past the two Black Market bodyguards standing at one of the entrances and stomped into the Auction House itself.

“Goya, if you  _really_ thought I would simply allow this to pass, you do not know me at  _all_ .”

Madam Goya stood perched on top of the counter at the back of the room, which ran from one side of the building to the other. The Black Market leader didn't look up, but Mister Chu did. Wrathion noted that the blood trail he'd left behind when Sabellian had attacked was gone.

He also noted the Dragonmaw. They were hard to miss. Standing in front of Goya was a tall female orc clad in sturdy black plate armor, and she was flanked by two other muscled orcs who openly stared at him. Wrathion ignored their predatory looks in favor of glaring at the two pandaren.

Goya was too busy writing on a hard-backed scroll to notice his glowers.

“How is your rogue faring?” Goya asked as she wrote. 

“She'll live,” snapped Wrathion.  _And with no thanks to you._ The archer who had shot the orc had apparently aimed not to kill, but to stun. The arrow had missed vital organs, but despite Left's insistence that she was fine, the sweat beading her brow suggested otherwise, and Wrathion had left her to recover.

Which had only been a moment ago. Only  _now_ had he been “allowed” to leave the Tavern. Thinking about it made him bristle. After they had been ambushed, the Black Market guards – and the handful of turncoat rogues – had forcibly escorted him back to the Tavern, but only after he had asked his Agents to stand down. There, he'd been kept under guard. Under guard, in his own pseudo-home! As if being ambushed wasn't terrible enough, they had to shoot his best guard and place him under apparent house-arrest which was only insult to injury. 

“I am happy to hear she is alright,” Goya said off-handedly. “Now, I'm afraid I'm in the middle of a transaction. Would you mind coming back later?”

“ _Yes_ , I  _would_ ,” Wrathion hissed. Ignoring the staring Dragonmaw, he swept up closer to the counter. Two of his agents followed behind him. “Where are they?”

“Where are who?”

Wrathion grit his teeth. “The dragons I was about to take care of!”

“It was a joke, dear.” Goya had not yet looked up from the paper. “But worry not. Our friends the Dragonmaw will take care of them for you now.” Goya finally looked up and gestured with her pen to the paper. “At least when compensation is paid in full.”

“I am not about to allow them to harness  _black dragons_ ,” Wrathion protested, drawing himself up to his full height, which wasn't intimidating in comparison to the looming orcs to his left. “They would be better off if they were  _dead_ . Azeroth would only benefit from that outcome.”

“Watch your tongue, whelp,” growled one of the Dragonmaw. “The Dragonmaw won't tolerate death threats from the likes of you.”

Wrathion rolled his eyes, then shot the orc a scathing look. “I didn't mean the Dragonmaw. I meant the  _dragons_ . I don't  _care_ about  _you_ .”

It didn't look like the orc was assuaged by the words. Wrathion didn't have the energy to care. He looked back at Goya, who watched the exchange with a surprisingly dull look.

“I'm afraid I can't help you, Black Prince,” the Black Market leader said. “You agreed to help me locate the black dragons, and here we are with the first.”

“You  _ambushed_ me!”

Goya smiled. “Let us be honest with one another, Black Prince. Do you think I was fool enough to believe you would comply so easily?”

“No.” Wrathion glared. “I believe that is why you  _blackmailed me_ , Madam Goya – and yet you go a further step than that and break any sort of agreement we had.”

Goya returned her attention back to the scroll. She wrote something at the bottom with a flourish of her quill. “I merely took it a step further, but our... agreement still stands.” She motioned to Mister Chu in a wave of her hand, and the bodyguard nodded before he walked off of the counter and into the back room. “Come, Prince Wrathion. Let us talk privately.” Before he had time to reply, she handed the scroll to the lead Dragonmaw. “Look over the terms, Warlord Zaela. We shall be in the back awaiting your approval and gold.” 

Wrathion looked at the leader more sharply.  _The_ Warlord Zaela? The orc saw him looking at her, for she glared over at him. Wrathion huffed under his breath.

“Well, come, come,” Goya insisted. She waved her hand in a small motion and, without waiting for Wrathion, went into the back room.

Wrathion hesitated. Goya had let him go at the Aerie. He wasn't a target like the others. Frowning, he followed Goya into the back room, the footsteps of his following Agents clanking on the wood paneling behind him.

Wrathion was prepared for darkness in the backroom. Instead, lanterns hanging from the roof lit the entire room in a warm and suspiciously inviting glow. Where there had been emptiness before, every valuable bit plucked and plundered, now was wealth. Vases as tall as he was and far more colorful stood stacked in one corner of the room; large chests, engraved in gold and silver decorations, were shoved into what seemed like every available space. Two steel cages that nearly reached the roof in height sat in one end of the room. Even from where he was standing, Wrathion could smell the meat left in them. He wrinkled his nose.

Goya was sitting in the center of her goods, on a small crate. Perched and delicate-looking as she looked, the choice of seating amused Wrathion. He went over, and tried to ignore the last time he had been in here – though a ghost feeling wisped over his skin as his body remembered the cold. At least, he thought, as if secretly to his own body, it had not yet remembered the reason he'd ended up here.

Wrathion looked around. “Where is -?”

“Now is not the time for those types of questions,” Goya said. She motioned to another crate. “Sit.”

Wrathion sat across from her on a similar crate. “Well, Goya? What could you  _possibly_ wish to talk about?”

“I would advise you to remember the  _Madam_ in my name, Black Prince,” Goya said. Wrathion thought she looked smaller without her looming bodyguard behind her – though hadn't Mister Chu come into the back before she had? “I am polite enough to call you your own name; I would hope a prince has the kindness to do the same for mine.”

“Very well,” Wrathion grumbled. “But I doubt you had politeness in mind with me an hour ago.”

“That is another matter.” Goya folded her hands in front of her and watched Wrathion with a calm expression that Wrathion thought deceiving. “Sometimes business comes before manners.”

Wrathion bristled. He struggled to take even a short, deep breath to calm his temper. “That seems to be the recurring theme, here,” he snapped. “And especially with you. As I  _said_ , you  _broke_ our agreement -”

“Did I?” Goya interrupted. “I'm afraid I have broken nothing. Indeed you lead the dragons to the Veiled Stair, and here they are with me, as I liked. What part of the agreement has been broken, Prince Wrathion?”

“You took the dragons by force!”

“Yes. As I said, prince, I am not a fool. You led them here to kill them – such a waste – and I intervened to  _uphold_ our agreement. Wouldn't you say it is  _you_ who broke it? I know how difficult it would be for you if those rumors spread, especially with many of your champions already angry with you – oh, do not look so surprised, I know these things – and I realize you wanted to bypass such things and get your way.” She shrugged, a gentle slope of her shoulders. 

“I am not about to let my family be loosed on Azeroth because of my fear of rumors and superstition,” Wrathion snapped.

“Yes. And so you tried to break our little agreement. But it all worked out in the end, didn't it?”

“No!” Wrathion grit his teeth and tried not to snort smoke. “You shot my best rogue and made some of  _my_ own  _Agents_ double-cross me!”

“Rogues are an interesting group,” Goya said, unfazed at Wrathion's growing irritation. “Did you realize the three to betray you were some of those you sent to help me retrieve my stolen goods?” She waved her hand around, indicating the items returned. “Some may be loyal, but others can be bought with twice the price you pay them.”

Wrathion stared. Growing understanding welled up in him, and he ground his teeth so hard his jaw began to ache. Through clenched teeth, he said: “You did not need my rogues at all. You simply wanted the excuse to buy them so you could –  _spy_ on me.” He  _knew_ that something was odd with her asking for their help, when she had so many of her own lackeys to help her!

Goya smiled. “You are, perhaps, a little paranoid,” she said. “Your rogues did help me, of course, but I agree... it was an excellent way to get familiar with them, was it not?”

Wrathion glared. “A mistake,  _Madam_ Goya. I won't forget that.”

“No, I suppose you won't.” Goya waved her hand dismissively. “But that is all water under the bridge for now. I assume you wish to prattle on about the dragons?”

Wrathion huffed. “I'm not going to  _prattle_ . I am going to  _warn_ . The Dragonmaw can have all the proto-drakes they'd  _like_ , but -”

“That's all well and good, Prince Wrathion, but I have a better idea for a conversation than you're ranting. I am about to be very generous, Black Prince,” Madam Goya said. “I shall be as frank as I have continued to be – I know you'll still be difficult in the acquisition of these rarities, and I do know more are out there. I do not want you getting in the way of it all, and I worry you are too intelligent to be ambushed a second time and blackmail may not be enough. And I respect you, Black Prince. I do not want us to be enemies, truly. So I propose a new agreement, for both of our sanities.”

Wrathion wondered if she'd used the last word on purpose. “And what would this new agreement be?” Prepared to strike whatever deal Goya offered down, Wrathion sat up straighter in his seat. How could she possibly think he would be even vaguely cooperative after what she'd done? 

“The Dragonmaw are desperate to have black dragons, as you and I both know. Much of their hoarded wealth will soon be mine. If I am honest with you, Black Prince, I find it so silly they are fixated on buying such a specific and rare color, but when one's reputation is on the line -” She shrugged. “But I do not care. Money is money – money I may be willing to share with you.”

Wrathion paused in his simmering. He frowned. Out of  _all_ the things Goya might have said,  _that_ he hadn't counted on. “I hardly  _need_ -”

“I wasn't done talking,” Goya interrupted. “Out of the wealth the Dragonmaw will give me, I will give you five percent. Don't look quite so offended, dear. I pay even less of a finder's fee to my usual workers.”

“I don't want your money,” Wrathion replied, voice edging on curtness, each word ended with a small snap. “What I want are those dragons dead.”

Goya sighed. “So many times, things cycle back to upholding reputation. It's such a loss.” She shot him a critical look. “I am sure you could continue being the 'Black Prince' even if you are not the last, hm?”

Wrathion felt a headache coming on. Ignoring the dull throb in his temple, he said: “It isn't about reputation than it is about doing what needs to be done. The task I started two years ago must be completed for the well-being of Azeroth.” 

Goya smiled. “You truly tout yourself as a stalwart defender, Prince Wrathion,” she said with a tone Wrathion wasn't sure was sarcastic or not. “I am sure it is a weight on your shoulders? I have heard about the Burning Legion. It is such a shame we do not have an Emperor or two to blow themselves into mists again to save us. I imagine your job would be much simpler then. But what was I saying? Oh, yes. The dragons.” Goya paused thoughtfully. “Let us approach this from a different angle. The dragons will die soon anyway in this upcoming siege I hear so much about. Don't you agree?”

“No,” Wrathion said. “There are no guarantees. Even the worst grunt can return home thanks to sheer luck; dragons will be harder to bring down than a mortal, luck or no.”

“You're right,” Goya replied, so quickly she had probably expected Wrathion's answer. “But what if they were killed after, or even before?”

Wrathion squinted at the pandaren. “And  _what_ are you implying?”

Goya leaned forward in her seat. “I do not like the Dragonmaw, Prince Wrathion,” she said. “They are some of my greatest buyers – it is so easy to barter with them when they don't know how to barter, and their fixation on rare goods gives me much wealth – but that hardly means I must enjoy their company or their plans. They are reckless, stupid. Whatever they do with the health and longevity of my purchases is of no concern to me, but how they use them is... unfavorable to my opinions. If you were to cut off their wings, I would be most pleased.”

Wrathion raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” 

“I am sure you've heard of what the Horde have been doing to the Vale?” She asked, sitting up straighter in her seat. “I am always a neutral party, as you can imagine. Business goes better if you can sell to more sides than one.” Goya smoothed back her graying bangs from her face. “But I do not like what the Horde is doing to the Vale,” she said, and her eyes shone differently, and they sparked with a deep-seated anger. “War is stupid but profitable, of course, but to destroy the Vale is something even I shall not tolerate.”

“I would think you would be interested in what they found,” Wrathion said. “For 'business.'”

Goya hummed. “Vaguely.” She eyed Wrathion and paused again, longer than before. She smiled curtly. “But I know much of the wealth of the Vale already. When I was young, I was part of the Golden Lotus. Not many people know that.” She shrugged. “So I have little curiosity in what they're finding; I only want them to stop – or suffer for the intrusion.”

“So! The mysterious Madam Goya  _does_ have a small moral compass.”

Goya smiled slightly. “Have you ever seen an individual without one? Even you, I suspect, have the same. But I am getting off track.” She linked her small fingers together and set her hands in her lap. “As I said, I care little for what they do with my purchases, as long as their gold has been given to me. What happens to them later is irrelevant. If the dragons were to die, I would not care... though I suspect you would. So, Black Prince. Here is my offer. You shall find the remaining dragons for me, I shall sell them to the Dragonmaw, and then you'll be allowed to kill them as you please. This will, of course, make the Horde suffer for the Vale and satisfy me well enough. And you shall get the five percent profit, of course.”

“Kill them as I please?” Repeated Wrathion. “I'm sure that's easy for you to say, Madam Goya, but I would rather destroy them before the Dragonmaw get them. It's much simpler that way. I don't have to get past mortals trained in killing dragons, and gain another enemy for it.”

“I am sure you could do it easily if you knew where the Dragonmaw were,” said Goya. “I have delivered... previous purchases to them before. I know their base of operations. I do remember that you use rogues for your assassinations? Would it not be easy for them to slip in and out?”

Wrathion hesitated. “I suppose that could be doable,” he conceded unhappily. “But I can still do this all on my own, Madam Goya, without entrusting everything to  _you_ .”

“Oh, my information against your sanity would still stand,” she said. “And your rogues were eager to share more information. I hear Sik'vess was bad for your health. How well have you been sleeping?” 

Wrathion grit his teeth. The rogues who had betrayed them, he thought, would pay dearly. “You could have brought this  _agreement_ up before you forcibly ambushed me. Why would I ever be in a position, now, to go into a deal with someone I cannot trust?”

“Well, your choices are rather limited, now, aren't they?” Goya pointed out. “My ambush of the dragons gave me the upper hand on you, I'm afraid. I already have one of the black dragons in my possession, and some other oddities, to sell, and have offers to give. What offers or threats can you give me in your position now?”

_I could burn your Auction House to the ground_ , he thought sourly. But as he sat staring at her, Wrathion realized Goya was painfully right. By making the first move and capturing Samia and the nether-drakes, she  _did_ have the upper hand on him... and of course, there was the fact she'd swayed a handful of his Agents to get even  _more_ information.

He cursed his foolishness. He'd been so focused on getting back the loyalty of his champions and trying to get better health-wise he'd brushed Goya's threats off to the side, when the entire time she'd been steadily getting her claws into him.

Wrathion  _hated_ being outsmarted.

“So. What is your answer?” Asked Goya. “Do you accept my agreement?”

“ _If_ I agree,” Wrathion began slowly, “and  _if_ you were to tell me the  _actual_ base of operations of the Dragonmaw...  _if_ I go in there and destroy the dragons, they will know something has run afoul. They aren't idiots. They would suspect it was me.”

“Perhaps,” Goya said. “But you're clever, Black Prince. I am sure you could think of something to cover yourself up, hm? Why, I could even give you pointers.”

Wrathion huffed. He hardly needed  _pointers_ from an old pandaren. 

“Be wise, Prince Wrathion. With the money you inherit from this deal, imagine what you could buy. The loyalest of Agents and excellent weapons for your champions. Perhaps you might even buy a better place of operations rather than Tong's old tavern.” She smiled, as if enjoying some private joke. “And you will be killing the dragons, too. There is no downside, here. But if you deny my agreement... I'm afraid it will end badly.”

Of course it would. Wrathion flexed one of his hands and a slow curl of smoke escaped the corner of his lips.

“Allow me time to think it over,” Wrathion growled as he stood. Goya looked up at him, the lantern-light of the backroom reflecting in her eyes. 

“Very well,” she replied, and rose as well. “I shall give you until the end of the day, for the Dragonmaw shall leave at the same time.” Goya stared at him and smiled. “Good luck in your decision, Black Prince. I will eagerly await your answer.”

\---

Rexxar thought over his options.

Perched one of the highest trees, the one of the few remaining along the slope that wasn't a burned husk, he watched the Auction House. The activity of the past hour had since died down, though more guards were posted along the entrances – nearly double the amount.

He continued to grumble about his lack of foresight. After he had eavesdropped on the Dragonmaw, he had managed to find Samia by Leokk. The wyvern had come trotting up at his low whistle and had been the one to lead them to the dragons himself; he must have seen them being brought in, for the wyvern had been hunting along the slopes. 

Getting past the rogues stationed around the Aerie was difficult, but nothing that Rexxar had not been able to handle. Half-running, half-flying past their stations – and only knocking out two rogues – they'd arrived at the edge of the basin. It was there he'd seen Samia and the nether-drakes, and had gotten his first look at the Black Prince, who was otherwise an unassuming thing.

But getting past the rogues without being detected had consumed too much time – and when Rexxar had begun to grab his axes to help, the Black Market had ambushed and the dragons had been captured, all too quickly. While Rexxar knew he was a great warrior, he lacked the hubris to dive into a situation where he was outnumbered and get him and Leokk killed. 

Frustrated, he and Leokk had followed the procession as they'd half-led, half-dragged the dragons to the Black Market Auction House. None of the pandaren guards spoke. The nether-drakes looked to be drugged and Samia remained unconscious, as she was the known largest threat. 

Had there been two or three less guards, Rexxar would chance it. But there was simply too many, and the guards took the dragons into the Auction House through the secret doors. When the dragons had grown close, the Dragonmaw's lingering proto-drakes had screamed and snorted, and had only silenced when the orcs had threatened them with a raised whip.

The most curious thing about the situation was that it'd become clear Wrathion was not in league with Madam Goya, as Rexxar had thought before. From his position, Rexxar had watched from farther north as the other guards had herded Wrathion and his remaining rogues into the Tavern. 

At least it took the Prince out of this puzzle, for now. But Rexxar had no way of dealing with the Dragonmaw by himself. The same risks were poised about getting the dragons out of the Auction House as they were trying to stop them from getting in: he was outnumbered, easily five to one. But it had to be dealt with.

What was worse that, while Vaxian was only a bit to the north in the mountains, making him the best target for necessary back-up, the Prince had sent his assassin to kill him. This entire situation with the Dragonmaw had uprooted any plan to go warn the black dragon. 

And so there he sat, thinking it over. Had Misha been here with Leokk, they might stand a chance. The bear was a terrible force of nature, even in the face of multiple enemies. 

But she was not here. And Rexxar rumbled to himself.

Ten minutes later, a flurry of movement caught his eye. He glanced down to watch the Black Prince storming up to the Auction House with two of his Agents and push his way through. The slope went quiet again, and Wrathion did not come out for some time.

It was during this wait that Rexxar heard a bird's cry above – and realized he recognized it. He glanced up and saw a white hawk circling, and though Rexxar was well-hidden in the foliage, Spirit stared right at him.

The half-ogre raised his arm, and the hawk dived down to land on it. Tied to both of his scaled feet were two notes: one crumpled and white and the other a mustard yellow and crisp.

“Hello, my friend,” Rexxar grumbled as he took off the yellow one and read it as Spirit preened one of his wings. Spirit chortled quietly in response. The bird was never one for vocalization.

The yellow note was, coincidentally enough, from Samia. It detailed what she'd found in the Valley of the Four Winds. Old news. Rexxar grabbed the other note.

_Hello, to whichever one of you is reading this!_

_My group and I didn't find anything down south – only bugs the size of my_ _**face** _ _ , cannonballs, and humidity. We saw an Alliance fort but steered clear. I don't think Dad would be hanging around there. _

_ Anyway, we're heading back up to the Jade Forest. Maybe we'll find Vaxian again. North seems more hopeful than south, anyway! _

_ And Samia, maybe you shouldn't take away the other messages? Because I dunno what Rexxar said in his, now. Unless the bird doesn't like having so much stuff tied to him. He seemed a bit persnickety when he landed near us. _

_ Pyria _

Rexxar reread the letter. If Pyria had begun to go back up north, she must be the closest dragon to the Stair – minus Vaxian. The half-ogre looked out to his right, where the mountains crept upward. 

He faced a choice. Go find Vaxian and help him and his group from the assassin the Prince had sent, and risk leaving behind the Dragonmaw with Samia and the drakes, who might leave far before he even got to Vaxian at all. 

The second choice was to send a message to Pyria, urging her to the Veiled Stair, and then send Spirit off to Vaxian after. With her group, he would have enough to get into the Auction House. 

Rexxar rumbled, and reached into the small bag at his waist. He withdrew a nubby piece of charcoal and a piece of jerky, which he tossed to Spirit. The bird gnawed on the morsel while Rexxar wrote on the back of Pyria's note. He explained what had happened, and to come as quickly as possible.

He tied it to Spirit's talon and stroked the bird. “Return when you give them their message,” he said, “and I will send you to Vaxian. Go.”

The bird raised his wings and dove, shrieking once before he disappeared into the mists.

\---

Sra'vess rumbled with activity.

In every part of the healthy kypari tree, mantid crawled. Laborers collected amber, blademasters trained the masses, and the amber-shapers, deep below, coiled the gathered mineral into various and deadly weapons.

In the lowest recesses, set aside for the most revered, a chamber yawned beneath the roots of the tree. In the center hovered a sonar crystal twice the size of a mantid, and it hummed.

Kil'ruk sat on one of the outstretching roots as he polished his amber polearm. Across the room, Rik'kal paced and Xaril tinkered with a small crystal object in his secondary set of hands. Korven the Prime, who had just arrived from the Seat of the Empress, stood at the entrance like a guard. There wasn't any need for one; no one would dare disturb the Paragons in their chamber.

“I tire of waiting,” complained Rik'kal. “We should strike  _now_ , before the pandaren do!”

“No. We agreed to wait for the Old One,” Korven said in his deep voice.

“He still needs His strength,” Xaril said to Rik'kal. “You imbecile.”

Rik'kal hissed and whirled on the Poisoned Mind. “Had your potions actually worked, He would have already fed from two hosts! We would not need to stall so and wait for the lesser races to finish our duty.”

“My potion  _did_ work,” Xaril snapped.

“Had it, the little one would have already been drawn  _as_ a Host,” Rik'kal, with no lack of smugness, pointed out.

Xaril bristled. “It is not my fault he – partially resisted. And it is not my fault the big one got away!”

“And do you think  _that_ was my fault?”

Kil'ruk raised his head. The two scientists had been at each other's throats since the mayhem of Sik'vess, and he tired of the chatter. “Enough. The fault in allowing the large one to go is allowed to no one.” For it had been him to stop the other mantid soldiers from attacking the dragon when it had climbed up from the ground. He had seen the hatred and anger, and realized that there was no need for Xaril's potion and sonar-tuning – at least with that one. The Old One already had a grip on the dragon's mind. Though Kil'ruk had heard nothing from their God about the dragons again, he could feel the slowly-growing strength of His voice. He was feeding on his prize. It was only a shame that the other beast had resisted as he had, though Xaril insisted that the little one could still hear the sonar, wherever he might be, and could be weakened by it until all of his guard was down. Only then would the Old One have another soul to feast on and another soldier in His army, as he had wanted from the dragons before. 

Kil'ruk was not so sure about that happening. It had been too long, and the little one hadn't come to them again. He doubted he would – but the loss of one host wasn't too great of a blow. The Old One had said He would be getting another – and had generously shared his identity with the Paragons, so that they might seek him out once he had been dug out of His prison to give aid.

“We have no need to rush into the Usurper's sanctuary,” Kil'ruk continued as he slid his polearm behind his back, and latched it in place. “The lesser beings are doing the worst of the work for us. Should we show our faces before the Old One was risen, the pandaren would rush in too soon, and may see the truth of what the new host is digging. We have been over this, Rik'kal. Quiet.”

Rik'kal chittered to himself. Xaril looked pleased. 

“I worry for this new host,” said Korven. “It is a fleshy thing.”

“Worry, then,” Kil'ruk snapped. “But we must trust the Old One. Let him feed off of an 'orc' or a 'dragon' and let him grow strong again. Let him use this 'Warchief ' as his new body. We shall wait. It will not be long, anymore.”

 

 

 


	30. Chapter 30

Samia awoke to the sound of chains rattling.

She opened one eye. Darkness greeted her as she adjusted to it – yet the only thing she saw when her slit pupil went wide to take in the meager light was a black wall in front of her and some warm light source from above. She went to turn her head up, groggy, to see if it was some lantern or the sun streaming in through some opening.

Something stopped her from doing so – a tug at her neck barred further movement. Samia could hardly lift her head a foot off the ground. What was this? Craning her head at an awkward angle, Samia looked down at her bending neck.

A thick iron collar was clamped around the middle of her neck. Chains as thick as her talons ran from two rings on either side of the thick band and led to the floor, where they had been bolted. She was chained like a beast! How had -?

All at once, Samia remembered the Secret Aerie. They had been – she struggled to recall everything through the haze in her head, which she suspected was at fault for drugs – ambushed by... pandaren? One of Wrathion's agents had gotten him by the throat. She couldn't remember the name he'd yelled out. She'd fallen unconscious, and been put here – wherever “here” was. How had they managed to get her into her true form?

Furious, Samia snarled and whipped her head back and forth as much as the chains would allow. Their rattling deafened her ears. She went to spit flame, but found even her maw had been bound tight with a similar band as the one on her neck.

That just made her angrier. But she could not lash out with tail or claw either, no matter how much she began to struggle. It seemed she had been bound at nearly every loose joint. Even her wings were weighed down.

“She's woken up!” Cried a rough voice. If only she could move her head!

It turned out that she didn't need to. A moment later, an orc, grey in skin and tattooed in heavy red circles, jumped in front of her, brandishing a barbed pole. Samia strained to smash her head into his side, but the chains stopped her. She snorted smoke and snarled again.

The orc raised the pole and struck it at the side of her neck, right behind her horns – a particularly sensitive spot. The force and location of the blow left her momentarily stunned, but out of instinct she tried to jerk back clumsily.

“Idiot, get – there.”

A sharp pain pierced her in the soft flesh between her talons. Almost immediately her foot went numb, and then her whole body began to dull in feeling. Her head drooped almost serenely back to the floor while anger was replaced by drowsiness.

“Quicker with that next time,” chided the orc who had struck her with the pole. Samia rolled her left eye to look at the other mortal: another grey-skinned orc. With her newly-dulled vision, Samia couldn't make out what she hung back up on the wall. Everything had a fuzzy and indistinct outline.

“Startled me, was all,” the orc grunted. She had a ponytail that reached even past her waist, which swung as she eyed Samia. “She's still awake. Give her more?”

“No. We'll be moving them soon. A drugged dragon can't be led well.”

They were Dragonmaw. What else could they be? Samia knew of two grey-skinned orc clans: the Dragonmaw and the Blackrock. She knew that her uncle, Nefarian, had ended up with control of the Blackrock orcs after she and her family had been in Draenor, but she doubted these were them. Blackrock orcs had been... coerced allies of the Black Dragonflight, from what she'd been told. Dragonmaw had more or less started out the same way when Deathwing had given them the Demon Soul, but the dragons on the other side of the Portal heard rumors that their riding of dragons had shifted from Red to Black – and that included former Black Dragons in the Netherwing, whom the Dragonmaw had enslaved in Outland. But they didn't need rumors for that. They'd seen it with their own eyes – and Sabellian had told them to stay away.

Thinking of the Netherwing, Samia rolled her eye away from the female orc to search for them in the room. Their neon coloration made searching for them easy, though she could only see half of them thanks to her limited field of vision. Malfas and Azorka, both in their true forms, were on the opposite side of the large, low-ceilinged room, chained in a similar fashion that she was. They looked to still be unconscious. She wasn't surprised to not see the Black Prince anywhere.

Well. What luck. They had come from another planet and toiled on some unknown continent to get snatched up by the _Dragonmaw_ , of all things. 

Samia wanted to scream, but she only managed a small snort of smoke. They hadn't even found -

Her father – who Wrathion claimed was dead. Samia remembered  _that_ .

She refused to believe it. A dagger, and certainly not Wrathion, could not kill her father. But Wrathion had sounded so  _sure_ . A hollowness settled in her chest. What if -?

But she couldn't dwell on that now. She could dwell on the truth of Wrathion's words when she was out of here. 

She would have to wait off this drug, first, before she made another – and more coherent – move. Samia redirected her attention to the two orcs again. 

“ -on't think they'll bring them there,” said the tattooed orc. “Too far away from Orgrimmar.”

The other orc shrugged. “I don't see why not. We can't bring untamed dragons to either the Vale or directly to Orgrimmar. It'd be a fool's trip. I say that Zaela has them brought to base. They need to be fit and broken in.” She glanced at Samia, who was careful to turn her eye away. “I still think she's too big.”

“Mm. A drake would be better, but for a mature female she's smaller than most. Ashmaw is larger than she is, and he's tamed... decently.”

“Hah! It doesn't matter how big the brute is. That chain could be used on the hatchling upstairs or on the old Broodmother herself, if she were alive, and would still work either way.” She paused thoughtfully. “Think they'll use it on this one?”

“No. Mm... well, maybe. Might have to do it the traditional way. Do you remember when they took it off Ashmaw for Galakras's training? Devoured two and burned half of his harness off before they got him under control.” Now he, too, looked at Samia. “But she's a dragon and'll give us trouble too – more than Galakras did. Up to the Warlord.”

“It'd be stupid not to use it. Okrut will just have to deal with a more unruly mount for a time.”

“Pah. Okrut will be hard-pressed to give up the chain unless the Warlord herself spoke to him. Greedy blighter.”

The other orc snorted in agreement.

They began to talk about their proto-drakes and the argument of a beef versus pork diet for fatty flames. Samia tuned them out. Any idiot would know that a healthy dose of obsidian and the occasional ruby cluster, if one wanted to be flashy, would make a dragon's firepower more boisterous in quality. 

Idly, she wondered who this Ashmaw was. Probably some poor Red still under Dragonmaw control.

“They should be here soon to lead them off,” said the tattooed orc, drawing her attention. “Should be interesting with the dragon.”

“They've done it before.”

“With proto-drakes.”

The orc didn't argue the point.

So they were being moved soon. Had they said that before? Samia hardly remembered. How foggy her head was! She grunted low in her throat and closed her eyes. At least the Dragonmaw  _thought_ they were going to be moved soon. Though it was slow-going, the sludge-like dullness in her body from whatever drug they had given her was inching away. A half-hour more, and she could try another strike.

As she waited, Samia looked around the room with her other eye. To her surprise, there were others – but not dragons. A miserable ivory hawkstrider stared at her from between the bars of its cage in one end of the room while in another enclosure paced a duo of green raptors, each one going a different direction and hissing at one another when one tried to change course. In a third cage was chained a white and pink hippogryph. 

What was this place? Samia understood it must have been some sort of basement, because she could feel rather than see the earth all around her rather than just below. 

A bright flash of green lit the dark room. Samia whipped – rather, lolled – her head around to see the nether-lightning strike the tattooed orc. The whole of his body jerked, then he crumpled to the ground with a sputtered curse.

Another green bolt struck out. Thanks to her limited view, Samia couldn't see which of the nether-drakes it was, though the veridian color of the energy had her guessing it as Zoya the Green and not the azure Feraku.

The other orc nimbly jumped out of the way of the strike. The lightning hissed as it hit the wall. With coiled speed, the mortal snatched what she had hung up on the wall before: a long pole like her comrades' but topped with some sort of loaded, thick-tubed needle.

The orc practically danced her way over to Zoya as she dodged multiple lightning strikes. Samia pushed against her bonds. If she was of a clearer mind she could use this underground element of the room to her advantage.

She tried anyway. Better to have Zoya awake and causing mayhem and she herself be weak with drugs than be more clear-headed and alone. Either way, she would remain bound.

Samia mentally reached out towards the earth. It reacted too slowly, and instead of the rugged wave of broken rock lifting from the stone floor came a softly-rolling, four inch high “wall” from the floor. It caught the attention of the fallen orc, though, who finally managed to make it onto his feet.

He grabbed his pole and ran at her. Samia, ready for the short charge, twisted her head to the right and, just as the polearm connected at her neck, managed to strike out to the left with the coiled force of her neck and open her mouth _just_ enough to grab a hold of the weapon. She jerked head head back as much as the chains would allow and the orc was flung forward towards her.

She let go of the polearm and traded it with the orc's ill-timed hand in front of her face. The mortal's blood burst hot in her mouth as she bit down through flesh and bone.

He yelled out in pain and beat wildly at her snout. Samia began to bring forth her fire to burn his hand off, but a spot of pain at her soft belly-flesh had the flame catching in her throat. She rolled her eye over and saw that the other orc had returned, the point of the drugged spear contraption dug into her flesh. 

“Damn what I said before. Use it all!” Snarled the orc whose hand was still in Samia's mouth. In response, Samia bit off two of his fingers. He howled.

The fog of the drug swept up her body. She held onto the orc's hand for as long as the muscles in her jaw would allow until finally her vision grew black and she swept back down into a senseless unconsciousness. 

\---

The sun was an hour from rising when Leokk came trotting along with Pyria and the four nether-drakes that had accompanied her in tow.

Rexxar had since moved from his position near the Auction House and had taken up watch near the path to the northern cave. It was far enough to stay away from trouble but close enough where he could still watch the slope's activities.

Pyria, of medium height and build, looked no worse for the wear of her southern trip, save for red welts on her dark arms that Rexxar guessed to be bug bites and sand caked onto her naturally-brown leather armor. She had a round face and a flat noise which only seemed to make her hazel eyes bigger than they already were.

It was not three seconds after Leokk, whom Rexxar had had stationed to walk along the cliff waiting for the drakes, had led the group to Rexxar that Pyria blurted: “Where's my sister?”

“In the Auction House down the -”

“And the nether-drakes, too,” interrupted a burly draenei-disguised-drake in golden plate armor. Ozaku, Rexxar remembered.

Rexxar harrumphed at the interruption. “The Auction House,” he repeated gruffly.

Pyria looked down the road which led to both Tavern and Black Market. She squinted, then shook her head. “I can't believe it. The Dragonmaw! It's like a bad joke.”

“And she knows bad jokes,” rumbled Ozaku. Pyria shot him a look before she glanced down at the road again.

“What are we waiting for? Let's storm the building!” Cried the pale-skinned “draenei” Brightwing next to one of the females. He had a nervous quality about him, as if he was only _just_ containing the lightning-like nether energy his true form possessed. Rexxar had wondered as to his name; it followed none of the regular naming conventions dragons meticulously tended to have. Perhaps it had some cultural significance he was ignorant to. 

“There are three proto-drakes below,” Rexxar explained, already aggravated and remembering why he liked to hunt and  _be_ alone, “and the Dragonmaw are skilled in fighting dragons. Charging in like some wounded boar would kill us all.”

“Oh. I've never seen a proto-drake.” Pyria tilted her head and wrinkled her nose. “I can sure smell them, though. They almost have the scent of the raptors in Blade's Edge. I bet they taste worse than them, though.”

“What! You would eat another dragon?” Asked Brightwing. 

“Proto-drakes aren't  _really_ dragons. If I was starving, I'd take a chomp.”

“That's disgusting.”

“You're disgusting.”

The conversation struck Rexxar as childish, but the two silent nether-drake females snorted in amusement. He'd forgotten he was with the teenage equivalent of dragonkind.

Despite her wide smirk, Pyria soon sobered. “So, what are we working with here?”

Rexxar shared all he knew: the number of the Dragonmaw (from what he had seen), the pandaren guards, the size of the proto-drakes and how many riders they could hold, and the entrances of the Black Market House, including the secret side-doors. Pyria asked about Wrathion.

“Uninvolved,” Rexxar grunted. “He only seems to be angry about being ambushed.”

“Huh.”

“If he's here, we can take him and the Dragonmaw out in one swing of our wings.” Ozaku stomped his foot.

“And how do you plan to do that?” Asked a soft-spoken female, a veridian named Shellak. 

“I can chomp 'em with my teeth,” Pyria said in an imitation of Ozaku so accurate that if Rexxar had not been looking he would have thought it had come from the male himself.

Ozaku snorted in annoyance.

“It seems that we won't be able to do any sort of raid,” said Shellak, now that Ozaku had quieted. 

“No.”

“If only Vaxian was here. He's a dragon, not a drake. Oh well.” Pyria sighed. She suddenly brightened and turned to Rexxar. “Do you think the Dragonmaw have my father? Not here, at least. I don't smell him.”

Rexxar hesitated. He alone knew what the cornered rogue had said. 

“I don't think so,” he decided to say. Upsetting the drake about news of her father's death – if it was true – would only compromise missions to save Samia and the others.

Pyria shrugged, then turned to stare down the path again.

Pyria bit her bottom lip. She chewed at it idly before she side-eyed Rexxar. “Well, there _is_ something I can do that might work. Maybe.”

“What is it?”

Pyria sat up straighter in her crouch and grinned. “It's a special trick of mine.”

Ozaku startled. “A trick? It's an annoyance!”

“Shut up,” Pyria said, though it sounded as if it were an afterthought and she did not take her eyes off of Rexxar's hooded ones. “Here. Watch!”

The girl-disguised-drake closed her eyes. Smoke began to seep off of the pores of her skin, and Rexxar feared she was shifting into her true form – something too large to not be a distraction. He opened his mouth to stop her.

But then he noticed that no black scales, no fins, and no slit eyes were appearing. Pyria remained humanoid, but her face – her body – shifted into an entirely different persona, hazy underneath the rising smoke.

“This isn't my best one,” she said in her same voice as the smoke stopped its growth and began to dissipate. “But hopefully, you'll recognize me.”

The smoke disappeared fully. Rexxar, for all of his calm and collected demeanor, jerked back in surprise. Taking Pyria's place next to him was Sabellian, smiling expectantly at him.

“Well? It's pretty good, isn't it?”

“I – yes,” Rexxar grumbled. He blinked and looked Pyria up and down. Seeing the drake's enthusiastic personality on the face of Sabellian was unnerving and alien. The high-pitched voice coming from the alchemist's mouth didn't help. “How can you do this?”

“Father says I got it from my Aunt, Onyxia,” Pyria explained. She shifted, looking wholly unaffected by the weightier spaulders now hoisted on her shoulders. Were they real? Or was it all just an illusion? “You know her, don't you? Of course you do. Anyway, I'm good at taking other forms. Obviously.”

Rexxar began to see why Pyria had said that this wasn't her “best one.” The shock of seeing Sabellian right in front of his face had worn off, and the hunter began to see the drake's mistakes in the replication of her father. The hair was too short and the nose too thin, and the eyes a bit too big. But it was, other than that, a well-done imitation.

“Yeah, I know I don't look  _exactly_ like him, but he hates when I make myself look like him. I never get to practice.” She grinned. “I can get exact copies, sometimes. It just takes a lot of practice.” She nodded her head back at Ozaku and winked at Rexxar. “I got him down pretty well.”

“It's annoying!”

“How will this help?” Asked Rexxar before the two could begin to talk further. 

In a rush of smoke, Pyria transformed into her regular guise. 

“Well, if we can't force our way in, we can sneak our way in. Can't we?” Pyria sat back on her heels. “I don't think I can shift into a pandaren so easily, but...  _maybe_ I could try one of the orcs. I've only ever tried human, night elf, and dwarf before. Orcs don't look  _too_ hard, though.” 

Rexxar paused. “You would disguise yourself and get past the others to find Samia.”

“And the nether-drakes,” added in Shellak.

“That's the plan,” said Pyria. “It can't be too hard. “

“There's going to be guards,” Telkazu, the since-silent onyx drake, said. 

“So?”

“They're probably going to be kept in some sort of cage, or in chains,” Rexxar noted. “The proto-drakes the Dragonmaw bought were bound securely. It will be difficult to get them untied, especially if there are guards.” He began to doubt the strength of this plan. Too many things could go wrong.

Pyria paused. She squinted down the road. “Well, uh. Maybe I can be really quick about it. I can melt the chains, maybe.”

“I say we take one of the Dragonmaw for Pyria to copy,” Telkazu suggested. She had a light and lilting voice that strangely reminded Rexxar of draenei wind-chimes. “I believe I have an idea.”

\---

Wrathion watched the pandaren mistweaver change Left's bandage and wondered as to how to best punish the Blacktalon Agents that had betrayed him.

They might have already run, of course. That, or thoroughly disguised themselves. It was all of little consequence to Wrathion. He'd find them, eventually, and when that time came they'd be cursing themselves at their choice of greed versus loyalty.

Left's sudden grimace interrupted his dark musings. The Prince glared at the monk, who was now putting on the new bandage on the orc's side to hide the hole in her flesh.

“You might want to invest in training to have a steadier hand,” Wrathion snapped.

“I'm fine,” Left grumbled.

Nonetheless, Wrathion remained staring at the monk, as if daring him to make another “mistake.” The mortal was either too fearful to meet his eyes and reply or simply too engrossed in his task to do either.

Hours had passed since Wrathion had left the Auction House. Since then, the dragon, with much scowling, huffing, and pacing, had done little else but think of the situation Goya had plopped him in the middle of.

No matter how much he thought, Wrathion could think of no solution to get himself free of Goya's paws. Any idea had negatives that far surpassed the positives.

Sending his Agents to sneak into the Actuion House and kill Samia would only anger both Goya and the Dragonmaw. Sending champions to do the same thing would risk the same problems. In any scenario, if he was aggressive towards Goya, she would counteract by leaking out unfortunate information about him, but Wrathion feared she would do worse things than spread words. He might be able to smooth down things spoken, but he could not do the same with things destroyed via bodily harm.

Like Left. Goya'd had her shot simply because the orc had been the biggest threat on Wrathion's side in the Aerie.

“The pain will linger for some time,” the mistweaver said as he rose. He'd finished tying the bandage as Wrathion had simmered in his seat. “Rest for the next two weeks, or you risk reopening the wound.”

Left nodded. Wrathion eyed the pandaren. “Thank you for your services,” he bit out. “The Agents downstairs will deal with your payment.”

The monk bowed his head. He exited the room, one of the free lodgings in the upstairs of the Tavern, and disappeared down the short hallway.

Left began to sit up – she was already well-propped by a small mountain of accumulated pillows behind her – when Wrathion redirected his glare to her, instead.

“And what do you think you're doing? Stay there, Left, and don't move.”

“I'm fine.”

“A hole in your side is not what I'd constitute as 'fine,' Left,” Wrathion countered, more viciously than he'd intended. He stood from the chair, shoved in the corner of the room, and began to pace in front of her bed.

“You don't have to stay here.” Left's voice rang flat. Was it a comment for his own sake or did she simply want him to leave? Wrathion decided not to think too hard about it.

“I'd rather be up _here_ than down _there_. I might as well have run a rut through the floor, I've walked back and forth so many times. If I hear any more of Tong's clanging in the kitchens or those proto-drakes calling outside – augh! At least it's quiet in here!”

Left snorted. “And what about Goya?”

“Nothing. Unless you've thought of something while you've been up here?”

“No.”

Wrathion halfway grimaced. Of course not. He stopped his pacing and turned to Left. As he'd been obsessing over Madam Goya's deal for the past handful of hours, he'd gone over what had happened at the Secret Aerie too many times. The conversation with Samia had been nothing short of a disaster – not like he expected anything more than that – but something had been itching at him.

“Left. What did Samia mean  when she said the water was poisoned?” Wrathion asked. “I had no idea what she was referring to.”

Left sat up, ignoring Wrathion's returning glare. “The rogues that were sent to Blade's Edge used poison in the water supply to try to kill the brood after their failure of simple assassination. I don't know if it worked. I received no message. They're all dead, I take it.”

“Oh.” Wrathion frowned. “An extreme method, but if it did any good... just as well.”

Left said nothing. Wrathion actually found himself wishing she would pipe up with some snide comment, something she had lacked to do since they had returned from Sik'vess. Maybe he should say something? He fidgeted and averted his eyes, settling his gaze on some random point on the far wall.

“Left,” Wrathion began, and though he strained to keep his tone aloft, professional, the very word halted awkwardly on his tongue. “I am... ah... sorry for how I have acted. Not that it was my fault, of course,” he added hastily. “But I do hope we might return to our familiarity.”

How odd, he thought, that he found himself caring for her voice. When he had first set out from Ravenholdt, he'd wanted rogues who would work for him and guard him; he hadn't been looking for any true sort of friend.

But here Left was. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

Left eyed him, her blue eyes dark before her knitted brow.

After a time, she relaxed. “Yes, my Prince.”

“Now that that's out of the way, I'd like your advice on this Madam Goya deal. A fresh opinion other than my own might make it all the more clear to me.”

“Take it.” Her answer was so abrupt Wrathion thought he'd misunderstood her, at first. He blinked and cocked his head to one side. Left sighed heavily. “It's better to side with her than remain her enemy, my prince, and sooner or later she will found out about the rest of the Black Dragons with or without you. You might as well side with her, unless you have some other idea as to how to go against her.” She shrugged. “The dragons will die either way, and you'll have more gold.”

“But selling them to the Dragonmaw? Even I am not so... inconsiderate.” The thought of being put in chains and under someone else's control, bent to their will and wishes, made his skin crawl. He wanted to kill his family, not make them suffer more than need be. At least not really. Wrathion knew the necessity of cruelty, loved tales of war, but _senseless_ cruelty was not only distasteful, but a waste of time.

“They'll be killed before they could be of any use,” Left said, misunderstanding him. “You would remain neutral. This would not count towards aiding the Horde.”

“That, too.” Wrathion itched at his chin and frowned. “I _suppose_ I should agree.  I don't really see what other options I have.” He hissed under his breath. “I should have seen this coming. But. No matter! As long as this deal stays between Madam Goya and I, I can focus on more important things.”

“That would be best, my Prince,” Left said. 

“I'll get it over with, then.” Wrathion stood. “Don't die when I'm away.”

Left snorted. Wrathion flashed her a smile, then sobered and paused thoughtfully.

“And Left. If you would please have some Agents find those who betrayed me, I'd be very thankful. Perhaps taking off a hand or two might make them think twice about double-crossing whoever they serve next.” He eyed her. “And if they were to.... oh, simply disappear, that might be even better for all of us.”

Left nodded. Glad she understood, Wrathion headed downstairs.

The Tavern was blessedly empty of customers, a stark contrast from the bustling night from before. Whether it was Goya's doing or just a lack of traffic, Wrathion did not know or care, but the first floor was as empty as he'd left it – save for one. Kairoz, the earnest Bronze dragon from the last night, sat at one of the smaller tables, reading a yellowed scroll. 

The dragon looked up at Wrathion's descending footsteps and nodded in greeting. Wrathion responded only with an appraising look.

The Bronze, admittedly, had been a delight to speak to. They had spoken of many things: the Cataclysm, the Aspects, the mysteries of Pandaria and even a bit about the Horde and Alliance war. Kairoz had attempted to strike up a conversation about their respective Flights, but Wrathion had turned all questions about the Black Dragonflight to ones about the Bronze. If Kairoz thought anything strange about it, he didn't let on; and if he did, no doubt he would understand why the last of his kind (well – almost) wouldn't want to talk about it. 

Overall Kairoz had spoken so surely, in such learned and sincere answers, that Wrathion's admiration for the older dragon had grown throughout the night. Odd, though. Wrathion had thought the Bronze had left after Wrathion had turned in for the night (not like he'd slept much). It seemed he'd stayed a day.

“Good morning, Prince Wrathion,” Kairoz greeted. “I hope you slept well.”

“Oh, very.” He wished. Wrathion stood in front of Kairoz's table. If Kairoz had spent the night, how much did he know of what had happened, Wrathion wondered? Had he simply slept through it? “I didn't know you stayed.”

Kairoz rolled up the scroll. “Ah, well, I thought I might rest before I journeyed back to my duties.” He tilted his head. “Did your Agents have time to find what I spoke of?”

“No. Not yet.” He'd forgotten about Kairoz's talk about something opportunistic about to come their way. 

Kairoz nodded. “It's only been half a day, but I'm sure they'll come across it soon. It's a bit hard to miss. Nonetheless, when you do learn of it, I'm sure you'd like to visit. You seem as interested in mysteries as I am.”

“What? Oh. Yes. Right.”

Kairoz slipped the scroll in a small leather bag at his golden belt. “I heard that the Dragonmaw have arrived. Have you seen them?”

“Have they? No, I wasn't even aware. That must be what the screeching and growling must be.”

“Those creatures do make a lot of noise. I wonder at the orcs' presence, though I suppose the Black Market Auction House has something to do with it – I doubt you do.”

“Thankfully not. I'd rather not be around dragon-slavers. Have you had any experience with them?”

“No, not I. I believe I was investigating Infinite corruption in... oh, what was it... the Well of Eternity, if I remember correctly, when the Dragonmaw were at their true peak in wars before.”

Wrathion hummed in amusement, thinking it a joke, but stopped when Kairoz stared serenely at him. To visit  _the_ Well of Eternity from... what was it, ten thousand years ago?... seemed unreal, but this  _was_ a Bronze dragon. Envy lit in Wrathion's chest.

“A lucky miss, then,” Wrathion said. Kairoz nodded.

“Agreed, though I suppose one might admire their well of determination.”

Wrathion grunted, stopping harsher words from escaping. 

“I have business to attend to, Kairoz,” Wrathion said instead. He nodded his head to two of the Blacktalon Agents standing in the opposite doorway; he would not be outside with Goya's goons alone. “I hope we meet again soon.”

“As do I, Black Prince. Good luck in your endeavors.”

Wrathion nodded, and went out the portal.

Dawn. Pink and yellows lit the sky, though became diluted in the ever-present mists. Wrathion ignore the rising sun coming up from the eastern side of the cliffs and headed out to the Black Market House.

When he was far enough away from the Tavern, someone called out to him.

“Hatchling! Stop. Let me look at you, boy.”

The grating voice startled Wrathion so badly he stopped out of instinct and looked. Warlord Zaela and two of her Dragonmaw were coming up from the path to the Auction House.

“Let's talk,” she said, and Wrathion glared. 

\---

“So? How do I look?”

The appraising group, nether-drakes and Rexxar alike, looked Pyria over. To the side, a Dragonmaw lay unconscious and tied, where he continued to bleed from a heavy blow to the head caused from the end of Rexxar's axes.

“Like an orc,” Rexxar said. Pyria beamed. The hunter shook his head. “Don't smile like that. It throws the illusion off.”

Pyria stopped smiling.

It had taken some time to copy the Dragonmaw's appearance. When Rexxar had gone off – by _himself_ , he'd sullenly insisted – to snatch an orc, Pyria had thought she could do it quickly because of the delicate time they had left. But when Rexxar had come back, the orc slung across Leokk's loping shoulders, Pyria'd taken one look at the heavy, boxy mortal and wavered.

The ashen skin had been easy enough, but Pyria had no idea how long it'd taken for her to perfect every other aspect of the mortal's appearance. Long enough where Ozaku, for all of his huffing blunder, had begun to doze, slumped up against one of the boulders leading to the lizard-smelling cave.

But she'd done it. Finally.

“I think it works well,” Telkazu said. The nether-drake, a slim thing with wide shoulders but a waist which didn't seem to be able to support the rest of her body, had been the one to silently but sharply shake her head when Pyria had messed up the disguise in some form or fashion: a tattoo the wrong color, the hair too long, the eyes too small.

“Thanks.” Pyria rubbed her now-large hands together. She felt mountain-like. Even her drake form had more grace than this clunking body. She'd changed her voice, as well; no longer did she speak with the higher pitch but instead with a low, graveling tone which Rexxar was the one to judge. The half-orc had been the only one to hear how the orc, an unfortunate Dragonmaw named Tuklar, had sounded before the hunter had knocked him out. The voice had been the hardest to get down; she'd only been able to use cues from the hunter. At least she didn't think to talk much.

“Are you ready?” Rexxar asked.

“Well, sure. Why not? Let's do it.”

“You don't seem very nervous,” pointed out Shellak.

“Oh, I'll be fine. I got this. Can I go now?”

“Hold. Ozaku, get up. Does everyone recall what to do?” Rexxar said.

They went over their plan one, then two times, as Ozaku was still groggy from his nap and didn't quite get it the first time.

It was sound enough, Pyria thought. Sure. Hundreds of things could do wrong. When she slipped into the Auction House and went inside, she could find multiple guards. They might not believe her story she'd prepared. Even then, if Samia and the others were tied too extensively, Pyria could fail.

And then there were the secret doors. She had to figure out how to open those, as well, from the inside, so that she could hand over the rescued dragons to the waiting Ozaku and Shellak. Rexxar would stand guard and be ready to swoop in if anything went wrong; poised with him were both of his animals, Leokk and Spirit. Odd that the bear wasn't here, but Pyria was too consumed with her disguise to ask about her.

Come to think of it, it was an awful plan, Pyria decided.

At least the back-up plan might help. _If_ anything did go wrong, the nether-drakes and Rexxar would storm the building, and hopefully give her enough time to get Samia and the others out.

The task finalized, the group looked at each other. An expectant, tense energy ran through them all – and they all redirected it at her as they stared. Pyria sucked in a breath and then let it out in one big rush of air. 

“Alright. I'm going.” She found herself pleasantly relaxed. It'd been the first time she'd done something vaguely important, unless herding raptors in Blade Edge from ogre lands counted. And it wouldn't do well to be nervous if her sister was in trouble. That could make her sloppy.

“Good luck,” Rexxar said. 

The half-orc shadowed her as Pyria turned and headed down to the Auction House. The sun was up, but the light on the slope remained dim. 

When she was within a yard of the odd building, Rexxar disappeared.

Now on her own, Pyria sharpened her awareness. For each entrance into the Auction House, two pandaren guards had been stationed. To the left of the building were tied the proto-drakes. Pyria faltered in her step as she glanced the beasts over. The two saddled black proto-drakes were hulking, clunky animals, but Pyria could see how she could descend from one: the heavy plates running down their head and back and the thick brown-black scales were similar to her own, though the odd little arms which seemed to do nothing but claw about in the air uselessly and the gigantic head were definitely not like hers. 

The biggest one was the red. It was easily the size of Samia, if not bigger. Pyria decided to keep a wide berth; they might be able to smell her true scent and Titans help her if that big beast came after her.

None of the pandaren guards paid her any heed as she walked into the Auction House.

“Tuklar! There you are. Where we you?”

A Dragonmaw in front of the entrance into the back room nodded to her. Pyria froze but soon recovered.

“Relieving myself. You want me to do it in front of the drakes next time?”

“You were shitting for two hours?”

Pyria snorted and came up to the Dragonmaw. She was taller than he was. “Let me go in.”

“For what?”

“For the dragons in there. Supposed to check up on things.”

“The Warlord already put Pokra and Raz in there.”

“Then you wanna tell the Warlord why you won't let me in when she ordered me to go?”

The orc rumbled. He moved out of the way. “Fine. Go. And tell me if those nether dragons have scales when you come back up. Regra doesn't believe me when I said they don't. Hah! Let's hope I don't get one of those salamanders.”

Pyria snorted again and swept into the room. Well – one step done!

The first panic she had was when she walked into the building and saw nothing she was looking for.

Barrels, boxes, crates and cages lined every available surface, lit by warm lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The shiny hilts of various weapons and armor winked at her in the light, and a handful of the cages housed creatures of all sizes: an owl stared at her as she appeared, and what looked to be a giant rat easily as big as her head, if not bigger, scurried into the back of its cage, among other things.

But Samia and the others were nowhere to be seen.

Pyria swallowed and walked the length of the room, sweating hands clenched. Rexxar had said they'd been taken in here. So where could they be?

She paused and sniffed. A faint dragon scent had caught her attention. She followed it to the side of the room – and it was there she found the secret doors.

They were near-seamless with the wall. Had she not been looking for something conspicuous, she wouldn't have seen them. It was the smallest of creases in the wood that caught her attention and the lever at the side, cleverly hidden behind a rack of weapons to dissuade prodding hands. 

The find hardly mattered if Pyria couldn't find Samia and the nether-drakes. She wrinkled her nose and tried to see if the scent-trail led anywhere else. The caged owl hooted at her as she passed.

The trail stopped at the far end of the room. Pyria turned around in a circle. What in the -?

The wood creaked below as she took a step back. Pyria cocked her head to one side. She knelt and knocked. The wood rang hollowly, as if something yawned beneath it rather than something solid to absorb the sound. 

Another secret door. Pyria grinned and searched for its opening.

After much fumbling and splinters in her wide hands, Pyria found the opening. Like the side door, the crease in the wood was what gave it away, hardly a centimeter across. But this door lacked any sort of lever. 

Pyria pushed down on the middle of the crease and felt the wood spring down at her touch. The wood groaned and a click came from both sides of the hidden entrance. She backed up as the doors in the floor rose up and out like a bird stretching its wings. 

The entrance revealed an opening into a dark basement by way of stairs large enough for a mature drake to fit through. 

Dragon scent, both Black and Nether, wafted up from the dark room.

Pyria wiped the sudden grin on her face and descended down the stone stairs.

Two Dragonmaw – only two! - stared at her as she reached the bottom.

“What?” The tattooed orc barked. Pyria glanced at him briefly. What she focused on the most was her sister bound in all manner of chains, sprawled on the floor with drool and blood around her tied mouth. The hulk of her form took up half of the large basement; one wing was more loosely tied and spread out in a half-stretch along the ceiling.

The nether-drakes were in the same position, though had less chains pinning them in place.

“Tuklar, speak or get out. What are you goggling at?”

Pyria startled and cleared her throat as she looked at the looming Dragonmaw. Willing her prepared speech to memory, she spoke.

“The Warlord wants you to get your mounts ready for departure. Now,” she added, more forcefully, pleased at the gritty effect she attained with her voice.

The female mortal with the long ponytail snorted. “Aren't you in charge of tacking them? Trying to shirk off your duties?”

“Uh... the Warlord wants me to, uh...” The Dragonmaw were beginning to stare at her strangely. She puffed herself up. “She wants you to do it. The beast's bridle was loose and they could have escaped their bindings because of your negligence. I may get the tack on, but you do all the final cinching. Do you want to anger the Warlord more by refusing her order?”

She hoped what she'd said had even been half-right. How the hell should she know how the Dragonmaw prepared their mounts?

Whether she was right or not, the Dragonmaw began to look hesitant. They glanced at one another.

Pyria nearly grinned. She may not know anything about how the Dragonmaw worked, but she did know that threatening mortals with fear of a commander's wrath would do more than was needed. Plus, trying to emulate her father's anger – she'd been yelled at a dozen times before, she remembered his tone easily – would make anyone quake.

“Are you just going to stand there?”

“You'll be alone with the dragons,” the tattooed orc said. One of his hands was wrapped with a ragged cloth. He smelled of blood.

“I'll manage. Go, go! We're leaving soon.”

“What, Okrut is here?”

“Uhm – no. But they will be soon.”

“Pah. Fine. We'll come back down when he gets here. Good luck with these beasts.”

The two orcs went up the stairs, and the wood groaned as they shut the secret entrance again.

Pyria gaped. It'd worked! Who knew her silly skill, which she mostly used for mischief and joke, would have actually been useful. Well, she supposed Aunt Onyxia had gotten the right idea: pretend you were one of the mortals' own, and they trusted you easily.

Pyria clapped her hands once and rubbed them together.

Her mini-celebration done, she ran over to Samia's side, dropping the Dragonmaw disguise as she did so.

Kneeling near her, Pyria took a hold of one of Samia's curling horns and shook her head back and forth as much as she could, though the weight of Samia's skull alone made Pyria puff in exertion.

“Samia! Samia. Samia. Wake up.”

Samia groaned. She opened one eye and her blurry gaze focused half-way on Pyria. The dragon snorted once; her pupil dilated.

“Hi. I'm going to get you guys out of here. Just stay still.”

Samia's eye rolled back and forth.

“They're gone.” Pyria tugged at the band around Samia's mouth and, finding it was too tight, began to super-heat her palms. The iron was double-enforced and as thick as her wrist, but metal could only handle so much heat. It began to melt, dribbling down Samia's snout in molten rivulets. “Good thing we're immune to heat, eh?”

Samia snorted. She shifted around and the other chains rattled.

Soon, the band on Samia's snout was a melted puddle on the floor. The dragon lifted her head as much as the band around her neck would allow and opened her mouth in a raspy yawn.

“Pyria, how in the world did _you_ get in _here_?”

“Gee, thanks for the tone of confidence.” She began to work on the collar. “I used one of my disguises. Aunt Onyxia would be so proud.”

Samia grunted. The fine scales and skin underneath her eyes sagged, and each word she spoke was heavily slurred. “Good job. Hurry as much as you can. The Dragonmaw carry sedatives. If they come back down here -”

“OK, I got it. I'm hurrying.”

The collar came off. Samia stretched her neck up and her bones popped as they realigned themselves.

“I can burn away the rest, Pyria. Help the nether-drakes.”

Pyria saluted lazily and went to the drakes. Two of them were awake: Feraku and Azorka. 

She worked on Azorka, first. Getting the chains and clamps off of the nether-drakes proved more difficult; they were not immune to heat like the Black Dragons were, despite their heritage, and Pyria had to melt the bands and chains slowly, just enough where the iron could be loosened and slipped off. Even still, little scorch marks were left on Azorka and Feraku's jelly-like skin where Azorka had pried the metal off.

Pyria couldn't say how long freeing them all took. After getting them all out of the chains, Pyria went to help Samia, still working on getting out of her complicated bindings with her flame breath, when Feraku bound forward and pinned Pyria underneath him.

“Stay still!” He said, and for a moment Pyria thought the Dragonmaw had come back. She looked up at the stairs and saw nothing. 

“Feraku, what are you doing?” Zoya asked in her sluggish, drugged voice.

“Just stay still!” He snapped at Pyria, who hadn't moved. He glanced back and forth, eyes wide and nervous. Samia stared at him. The dragon's fins began to rise as she growled.

“Get off of Pyria.”

“No! I'm not going to let the Dragonmaw get us again, but they can get you!”

Zoya gawked. “Feraku, are you mad? What's gotten into you? Get off!”

In one rush of air, Feraku spoke. “Barthamus wants Blade's Edge clear so we can have it and the open pass to Zangarmash and Nagrand. If the Black Dragons are gone, it'll be easy. We'll have food, water, and three times as much territory,” he explained. The finicky drake gulped in air and hunched his back, and his voice carried a tone which suggested he'd practiced them many times before. “You must understand that Sabellian would not let us into Blade's Edge by himself, and Sabellian is gone. If the rest are, too, we can take back the Crystal Spine he kicked us out from!”

“You're bringing your annoyances up now, Feraku?” Azorka asked in a tone that suggested she thought Feraku as overwhelmingly stupid.

Samia hissed. “Furywing and Insidion evicted the Netherwing from the Crystal Spine. It wasn't our brood's fault.”

Pyria tried to wiggle herself away from Feraku as he looked up at Samia, but the nether-drake saw and shoved more of his weight down on her shoulders.

“I have to do it now, Azorka. There's no other time.” He glanced at Samia. “And Sabellian hardly helped when it happened, though,” Feraku countered. “He turned a blind eye to our suffering. As always! Cast my father out the moment he hatched, as well as the rest of us! And my father was stupid enough to seek him out for an alliance. Now here the Netherwing are, suffering for dragons who weren't even there to help us even when the Dragonmaw came to Shadowmoon to slave us.” The nether around his body crackled. “What has the Black Dragonflight done for us? The only time Sabellian paid attention is when he could  _use_ us, like my brother and cousin he sent to Wrathion instead of sending his own children to slaughter.” He huffed. “Ultimately, the Black Dragonflight and the Netherwing tied by blood but nothing else. If you all were gone, the Netherwing – we would thrive throughout Outland. Our crystal forests already bloom in the Crystal Spine; if they grew throughout the rock, our energy would duplicate – triple! The demons would not be a threat, then.”

“None of you ever approached my father about retaking the Crystal Spine,” spat Samia. “Furywing and Insidion left Outland long ago. None of us roost there.”

“Because the Netherwing listen to my broodfather, who's grown too soft since the Dragonmaw left. He's too nervous about upsetting Sabellian to ask any sort of territory.”

“So I'm guessing Barthamus sent you to upset us here, huh?” Pyria asked. Feraku glanced at her.

“I say nothing more.”

Pyria glanced at the other nether-drakes. They all stared at Feraku in confusion – even the usually flat-faced Azorka. Pyria  _did_ remember something or other about a small split in the Netherwing, but didn't know the details. Were others who shared Feraku's sentiments in her group, or in Vaxian's? 

“Samia, I don't want to kill your sister. Stop untying your chains. The others and I will be off.”

“I'm not going to come with you, Feraku,” Zoya said. Malfas bobbed his head in agreement. “This is – disgusting.”

Feraku sucked in a breath. “Nothing short of what the Black Dragonflight has done and has not done for us. If you stay with them, you're bound to die.”

“You killed the rogues in the arakkoa's forest with Rexxar,” Malfas said. 

“Vengeance for my killed kin, and nothing else. I know how to put on an act as well as any Black Dragon. I'm doing this for the Netherwing. Please, you have to understand.” 

A rock slab shot up from the ground in front of Feraku and struck him across the face. He lurched back onto his hind legs, and Pyria scrambled to her feet.

Samia surged past her. She'd finished getting out of the last of her chains – maybe when Feraku had been talking. Before Feraku could get back up, Samia grabbed a hold of his neck and shoved him back to the floor.

“I should kill you!”

Feraku opened his mouth when the building shook. Dust and dirt fell on them from the ceiling. The dragons looked up.

“What was that?” Malfas asked. Pyria thought it a stupid question.

A roar thundered from above, muffled through the wood. 

“That isn't a proto-drake,” muttered Zoya, as smoke began to seep into the room.

\----

The “easy flight” to the Jade Forest had instead been an agony.

The cold winds in Kun-lai had been kind enough to make the ache in Sabellian's multiple wounds dull. He hadn't minded the shearing winds, despite Chromie and Nasandria alike shivering slightly in the cold.

The flight grew worse when they left the cold.

The pleasant warmth of the Jade Forest did _not_ dull Sabellian's wounds. With each beat of his wings, his agonies had grown sharper. Even old wounds from years before flared. 

It had been a pain in itself to keep the strain of flying from his face, but Nasandria must have seen it, for she feigned sudden fatigue and they landed on one of the high, green hills that dotted the forest. Chromie had, either by accident or by intention, taken the longer flight  _around_ the Veiled Stair. Sabellian had meant to make her bank away, anyway, but was glad when the Bronze did it on her own accord.

They'd rested on the mound until Sabellian had caught his breath and his wounds became a dull throb again, and then they were off a second time.

The moment they took off the pain returned. His body called for a longer rest. He ignored it as they passed the coast and flew off across the sea.

After hours of flying, they reached the island.

Sabellian thought it was one of the “regular” islands that dotted the coast until Chromie lifted her head and called: “Here we are!”

This was it? Sabellian squinted. They were coming upon it quickly. The island was as green as the Jade Forest and as hilly. Nothing about it looked even vaguely spectacular, at least from this distance.

Chromie banked to the left as they approached, turning for the sandy beach rather than the abandoned and overgrown pandaren village they'd been flying towards.

Mortals milled along the coast. They stopped when the dragons approached and gathered at the very edge of the beach, though some stayed behind. Even from the distance in altitude, Sabellian saw their hands go to their belts – and to the hilts of their weapons.

“How do they know not to attack, exactly?” Nasandria asked, seeing the same.

“They know who I am, and they don't see that I'm in any sort of trouble. But I don't think that'll stop them from being overly cautious. Let me talk to them after we land.” She looked behind at them. “And be careful! There's a sort of barrier around the island that makes flying difficult. Steel yourself.”

And with that, she dove. For a single moment her large body wavered, but then she straightened out and landed lightly on the white-sanded beach.

Sabellian followed. If the mortals decided to attack or if there was some trap, better for him to land first and take the brunt of the blows than for his smaller daughter to.

He did not dive as fast as Chromie had. He regretted it when he hit the winds the Bronze had spoken of. As if he had passed through a sort of barrier, the calmer breezes from the ocean were replaced by a screaming torrent that jerked the whole of his body to the side. Sabellian snorted and righted himself.

He flapped his wings and passed by the winds. The sand made his landing sloppy; he had to bat his wings a second time so he might settle to a stop and not fall over onto his chest.

Chromie had already shifted when Nasandria landed beside her father. Sabellian watched the “gnome” - how did such a powerful dragon cope in such a fragile body? - walk towards the waiting mortals. They all wore the same tabard as Chromie did: white and gold and inlaid with the eternity symbol. But whether they were Night Elf, human, orc or tauren, all were rigid-backed and alert; some had the decency to try not to outright stare at him while others did.

“Don't you think we should shift into our mortal forms?” Asked Nasandria. An enormous white sea bird circled above them.

“Until Chromie says we are welcome, I will stay in this form,” Sabellian grumbled. He jerked his head up to spook away the lingering bird. It cawed at him and moved away.

Chromie returned after much hand waving and quiet murmuring. The mortals drifted back to their original posts, but some continued to give the two black dragons sideways glances.

“Everything is taken care of,” Chromie said once she came within earshot. “They'll just have to get used to seeing a Black Dragon.”

With all that staring, they'd get used to it quickly.

“Very well.” Sabellian shifted into his mortal form. The sand began to cling not to his paws but now to the ends of his long robe. A bad choice of wardrobe for a beach. His skin prickled in agitation, but he held off questions as to where they might move so logistics might be asked first. “What did you tell them?”

“I didn't tell them who you were, and I'm unsure if any of them recognized you – the older elves, at least. I just said you needed some sort of temporary asylum.”

Beside him, Nasandria shifted into her own human form. “And they can be trusted?”

“Of course. The Timewalkers are a very open and intellectual group. Like I said, they'll need some time to adjust with your presence, but they'll warm up eventually. And besides, the Timeless Isle truly is a sanctuary, albeit a... dangerous one, in some areas. To turn you away would be forsaking what this place is about, and I doubt our pandaren guides would like that very much.”

Sabellian crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring how terribly his body ached with each movement, and looked around. Now on ground level – and on a s _horter_ level – he eyed the island with a new perspective. He understood that the hills from the sky looked high, but now on the island they looked massive, towering up into the clouds where they were circled by more of the same white birds. The beach led up to the greener flats, peppered with low-hanging trees of thick bark and spread foliage like those found in the Jade Forest. If he squinted, he could just make out some higher-leveled part of the island to the north, but it was too hazy even for his eyes to make out what sort of landmark it was, whether it was some cliff or a squatter series of hills.

“I trust that they will only keep their mouths shut and stay away from us,” Sabellian said as he turned back to Chromie. “Where is a place we might stay?”

Chromie paused to consider. She looked around at the island as the waves lapped against the beach's edge. Some locust peeled off in a noisy buzzing song. “You might try to the north of the island. There's some caves some of my Timewalkers have found, but – well, for your true form, I'm not sure if you would fit.” She pointed towards the northeast. “Off to the other side of the island, though, is a settlement of yaungol. They are very similar to the tauren in appearance, if you're unfamiliar with them. A vicious race, however. I would stay away from there, though their fires and black rock might look appealing to you.”

It already sounded appealing. Anything would be welcome beside this green and lush and wet place. He missed the dry heat and rock faces of Blade's Edge. “Fine.”

“Father, um – are you feeling well?”

“Well enough,” Sabellian answered in clipped tones. Nasandria remained staring at him with shielded eyes; he realized she wasn't asking about his various wounds and bruises. “I hear nothing, if that alone calms you.”

Honestly, he felt the same as he had when he'd first landed on the island: exhausted, in pain, and in a foul mood with the slight itch in the back of his head. The only indication that they'd landed on something different than the run-of-the-mill island was the wind-barrier, but Sabellian had not expected much from this place. As Chromie had put it, it did not heal, but it halted. Why would he ever feel better?

“I'll let the other Bronze dragons know you're here,” Chromie said. “Most of them are of the good sort, but others might be sore with your presence. The Cataclysm left scars on many memories. I apologize if any are outwardly aggressive in advance.”

“We will be used to such aggression. There is no need for a preemptive apology.”

Chromie smiled, then frowned. “I'd introduce you to one of the other leading Bronze here, but he seems to have gone off the island. Just when I had to show him something! Oh well. I'm sure he'll be back soon. But as of now, you're free to roam the island.”

“Thank you, Chromie.” Finally, someone that was worthy of even some of his respect. He nodded his head and the Bronze did the same. “Come, Nasandria. I tire of this beach.”

Sabellian shifted into his true form again, and had to stop the snort that threatened to escape him as he saw some of the mortals lurch back, despite his distance from their camp. 

As quickly as they had arrived, the two dragons were off again. Sabellian turned northward. 

They flew around the jutting hills around the coast to soar over the green flats, passing a handful of rock shrines free of overgrowth, the wide canopied trees, and monstrous cranes that might have reached Nasandria's shoulder had the drake been grounded. Now that they were past the guardian hills dotting the coast, the island's topography, spread out before them from their air-view, became more apparent. 

There were multiple levels of the island. From above, it almost resembled a wide spiraling staircase, where the bottom of the stairs began to slope up at the southeastern part of the island and rose around the circumference of the coast until it reached the “top” at the farthest, northern end of the island. That highest level seemed to be the most obvious place to stay, but Chromie had noted the yaungol, and Sabellian decided he was too weak to fit off “vicious tauren” that the Bronze seemed wary enough of to even warn about.

After they had little luck finding a cave on the second level of the eastern island, they settled on one on the first. It wasn't large enough to hold his dragon form, but it was nestled into the higher level's rocky wall, providing a sense of stability and natural warmth, and faced sideways to the sea, so that the salty, sharp air would not shear into the little hideaway.

A small ledge had been carved at the very back of the cave. What it had once held on it, Sabellian couldn't say, but it made for a nice resting spot for the pink crane he'd killed before they had found the cave.

Sabellian offered the first bit of the bird to Nasandria. She gave him an odd look, hesitated, then pulled off one of the juicy haunches.

“What do we do now?” She asked after swallowing the webbed foot, the last of the morsel.

“I am going to rest,” Sabellian said. He would have to check on his bandages. His wounds had sealed, but the flight had risked them reopening. “You would do well to do the same.”

“It's not really what I expected,” Nasandria said. “The island. When will we head for the portals?”

Sabellian had not been alone with Nasandria long enough for him to tell her anything beyond the later use of the portals. He opened his mouth to explain that the idea was to lure Wrathion himself here – no agent, no champion, but Wrathion, in some form or fashion – when he realized Nasandria's reaction may easily end up negative. He might have been weak in body but not in observation; Nasandria was eager-eyed and impatient. She'd remained that way since he'd told her of the portals. It might be better for him to keep this skeletal idea to himself – not for Nasandria's sake but for his own. If he had one more person critique and question him, he might just go mad on his own, Old Gods or no.

“I understand that Chromie must find the portals' various schedules,” said Sabellian. “Once that is done, and we are all well rested, we shall choose the best course of action.”

Nasandria bobbed her head once. She sighed wistfully. “I'm so ready to go home, Father.”

“As am I,” Sabellian replied. He did not have to lie about that. 

\---

Warlord Zaela, Wrathion decided, was easily one of the most intimidating mortals he'd had the “pleasure” to meet.

It wasn't her armor, an ashen-black only a bit darker than her skin, or the two Dragonmaw behind her who watched Wrathion as one might a prized horse so much as it was the way she held herself. Wrathion had seen his fair share of mortals who liked to throw their strength around to impress, whether through shouts or swung weapons or picking fights, but Zaela had no need for any of those dramatics. The way she stood – straight, tall, and open-shouldered – and the sneer on her face made the strength of her body all the more palpable to him.

He wondered if her reputation as dragon-slaver and dragon-rider helped him come to such a conclusion, too.

“How nice to see you, Warlord Zaela,” Wrathion said. He mentally waved off his agents, who had both stiffened at the orc's greeting. “I'm sorry we couldn't speak at the Black Market, but I was a bit engaged. What do you need from me?”

Zaela snorted. She looked him up and down. Wrathion felt his skin prickle in his uneasiness at her look. “I came to see you up close with my eyes, whelp,” she said. Did she not remember she had glared at him in the Auction House only hours before? “In private.” Oh.

She looked him over again. What a look! It was as if her very eyes were trying to skin him where he stood. “You're more pathetic in person than your reputation suggests. I should have hunted you down when I had the chance.”

“His hide would've hardly made a single boot,” said one of the Dragonmaw, a male missing his left eye. The other Dragonmaw, a female missing half of the fingers on her right hand, snickered. Did they gain such injuries from battle, or from unruly dragons? Wrathion hoped it was the latter.

“Ah.” Wrathion surprised himself with his calmness. “I see now. I understand you're probably... unhappy with my task in the Cataclysm, to give me such animosity?”

Any amusement the Dragonmaw had on their faces fled. Their glares bored into him. Zaela, who hadn't even humored a smile before, eyed him darkly.

“Enough of our dragons died with the Wildhammer,” Zaela rumbled. Her voice was so hoarse. Did she scream at her other orcs and dragons all day to get a voice like that? “And the Alliance. We didn't need a hatchling to kill the rest.”

And then she spat at his feet.

Wrathion hissed under his breath. He dared not take a step back, in fear of looking submissive. “While I will happily take the blame for many of my family's death, you may want to redirect your anger to other sources. I wasn't the _only_ one to kill them, you know. Surely you realize the Red Dragonflight and other mortals killed many of 'your' dragons? I only helped hasten along extinction.”

Extinction except for him, of course.

The Blade's Edge dragons didn't  count. 

“Pah! Extinction.” Zaela's eyes shined oddly – maybe in some vague sort of amusement? Wrathion wasn't sure what to make of it, though he assumed she was thinking of the dragons Madam Goya had promised. “You killed enough to, at least, make an enemy of me.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” In a way, he was. It didn't bode well to make enemies, especially in his position. “But I'm sure we can mend our relationship once this is all over, Warlord Zaela – if you'll allow it, of course.”

“I don't have any need for the friendliness of a dragon,” Zaela answered. “Especially you. But know if you attempt to stop us from having these new dragons, I will come after you, hatchling.”

“You know,” Wrathion began carefully, “I would think the proto-drakes serve you far better than an intelligent dragon ever would. They are savage enough to turn battles but stupid enough to easily tame, I suspect. Why burden yourself with my kin, who are more likely to actively hate and go against you?”

Zaela snorted. “There isn't much difference between dragons and proto-drakes. They both bend to the whip when beaten enough, and there are always other methods for obedience. Galakras is my prize, but I would choose a dragon over these other beasts easily.”

“Why? Do you enjoy the conversation?”

“No. Because of the fury and mayhem they can unleash. The sight of a proto-drake might instill fear as a pack of worgs might, and they are ferocious beasts, no doubt. But nothing can beat the look of your enemies as you descend with true dragons. The fear – the panic! To make them know we can break even dragons shows our strength, and a dragon's destruction is a sight to behold. Proto-drakes are no comparison.”

He couldn't argue that point. 

“Well. Rest assured, I won't be hindering your acquisition of the dragons,” Wrathion said. And truly, he wasn't. He'd be killing them  _after_ the acquisition. “Now, do you need anything else?”

Zaela stepped closer. Wrathion stiffened. “If you -”

A roar, dull in distance but lacking no ferocity, boomed across the mountain-side. Wrathion and Dragonmaw alike snapped their heads over towards the direction of the sound. 

An orc, metal armor clanging, bolted up the path towards Zaela. 

“A black dragon, Warlord!” She said. “It was spotted coming down from the mountain. It arrives as I speak!”

Another roar, closer, and then a great  _whoosh!_ Cries of alarm sounded. Wrathion, from above the tips of the small-hanging trees, saw fire and smoke alight farther down the slope – near the Auction House. 

“Hah! Drawn towards its captured kin! Go, Dragonmaw. Let us bring down our own prize. Goya will not have this one.” The two orcs behind Zaela saluted and sprinted towards the Auction House.

Wrathion forgotten, Zaela pursued, and the Black Prince watched as a black dragon wheeled in his direction then snapped back towards the Auction House, his maw opening for another fiery explosion upon the building. 

\---

Everything had been going well before the smoke reached them.

Samia looked around, but she tightened the grip on Feraku's neck so he would not get away. Whatever had attacked the building had done so with fire, and she guessed something on the second floor had collapsed inward to wedge a hole in the doors Pyria had noted, allowing smoke to seep through. 

It already hung thick. Malfas coughed. Black Dragons filtered the choking hazards of smoke easily, but nether-drakes, not so. If they did not get out of the basement soon, all of them would asphyxiate. 

“Pyria, get those doors open!”

Pyria bolted up the steps.

Samia turned back to Feraku. “Try anything else, and I'll tear your head off. Or, I'll leave you down here to choke. Either one.”

Feraku stared at her and lay still.

“They're jammed close!” Called Pyria from above, her voice muffled by a sudden quake that shook the building and sent the wood and stone to groaning. 

Samia growled. She took another look around the room. “Pyria, get down here. We're going to just go up.”

She let go of Feraku, lifted on her hind legs and crashed her head through the ceiling.

Wood fell on her face and down onto the scaleless nether-drakes below. She used Feraku's thick neck to leverage her hind leg so she might shove her head in farther and make a larger hole by shaking her neck back and forth. Fire burned at one side of her face, and she chanced a quick look before she pulled her head back down to the basement. The second floor was on fire, or at least half of it was; crates smoked and the flames inched closer towards the exit.

“Climb up on my back and get up there,” Samia commanded. Another roar from outside sounded, and a proto-drake answered back in its monstrous call. 

Malfas clambered up her first, his crystal talons gripping onto her scales as he bound up and over into the hole.

Azorka and Zoya followed. Zoya, like Samia, remained somewhat drugged, and had to have help from Pyria to get over the edge of the hole.

“Don't leave me down here,” Feraku pleaded. 

Samia snorted, took a hold on him by the base of his neck, and with a grunt and much straining, shoved him up through the hole. She wasn't about to allow some agent of Barthamus die with any other plans the elder Nether Dragon had.

“Go, Pyria,” Samia ordered, and her sister joined the nether-drakes on the second floor.

Samia flapped her wings, cramped in the basement, and rose just enough so she could hop and drag herself out of the entrance she'd made.

She was greeted by two pandaren guards, perhaps drawn towards the fires, raising polearms to strike Malfas, the closest drake to them. 

The nether-drake flattened himself to the floor. Samia whipped her tail around and sent the mortals flying.

Uncaring of all the valuable items and their neat arrangements, Samia leaped over the other drakes and crashed their way to freedom through the wall, secret doors be damned.

She startled three Dragonmaw who'd been in the process of getting on their black proto-drake. The beast screamed at her, but Samia only used her increased momentum from the charge through the door and redirected it to the drake. 

Her lowered head collided at the point where its wing met its hunched body, throwing the drake off balance. It fell back – it, and the three orcs who'd been strapped onto its elaborate four-seated saddle. One orc was squashed under the proto-drake's wing-tip as the beast desperately tried to get back to its feet.

The drakes poured out of the Auction House.

“What in the world is going on?” Zoya asked. The top of the Auction House and the back half of it blazed with fire, and another team of Dragonmaw had begun to mount their proto-drake. They lifted into the sky with a war cry. Other Dragonmaw hauled out huge poles half as thick as their waists and planted them into the ground at an angle, the barbs aimed at upward.

Above, a black shadow zoomed across. Three darts of various neon colors followed.

“It's Vaxian!” Pyria cried. “That idiot, where's he been!”

“The dragons have escaped! Dragonmaw, get them under control!” A female orc with spike-like hair atop her head cried as she mounted the enormous red proto-drake. Smoke mixed in with the fog of the slope. “Go!  _Go_ !”

The red beast shot into the sky.

The red proto-drake that had begun to go after the wheeling Vaxian turned back towards Samia and the others. The other mount Samia had knocked over had finally gotten to its feet, riders in place on the saddle.

“Split up. They're so big we can smash them back into one another.” Samia leaped into the air and the world spun briefly as she gained altitude. The drug was still within her. At least getting her blood pumping would dilute it more quickly.

She turned and saw Malfas and Azorka were following her. Zoya followed Pyria, who had gone in the opposite direction. 

Feraku was shooting off towards the mountains.

Samia snarled. She couldn't go after him now. The Dragonmaw were the bigger threat.

The proto-drake already in the air came after her. It extended its back legs as if to grab onto her neck. 

Despite her size, Samia was quicker than the other animal. She dove down and, as she felt the tip of her back fins brush up against the proto-drake, lashed her tail out. The barb at the end cracked against the drake's armored face. 

_Crek-woosh!_ A black object shot up towards her. Samia lurched to the side in time for the shot polearm launched from below to zoom past her. 

“Watch out for those!” She yelled back at the nether-drakes. Not like they needed telling.

Her dodge of the polearm had let the proto-drake get the upper hand. The beast grabbed a hold of her right foreleg with its mangled teeth and twisted its head. She heard, rather than felt, a bone snap. The pain came after. She roared and dug her mouth into the back of the mount's head. 

They circled around one another, interlocked. Tiny pains lit up her hide as the Dragonmaw shot arrows into her flank. 

Azorka appeared like a flashing shadow. One moment she was there, and then she was not. In her wake, two of the Dragonmaw fell with a cry, ripped off of the saddle by Azorka's attack. They fell and hit the earth with a dull crack of bones.

Malfas was less dramatic, but no less helpful. He landed himself on top of the proto-drake's neck, regardless of the Dragonmaw behind him, and began to claw into the proto-drake's flesh. He lacked precise strikes and instead fought through fear; his eyes were wide as he sent blood flying.

The proto-drake finally cried out and let go of Samia's leg. As it banked to the side, the remaining Dragonmaw riders raised a harpoon-like contraption trailing a flattened net and shot it.

Samia dodged the harpoon, clumsily shot, but the net wrapped around her other forearm. The weight of the harpoon might have dragged down a drake, but Samia was too large for it to make an impact. 

Azorka appeared again to rip away the netting. 

“They're carrying the sedatives,” she said as last of the net fell away. “Careful.” She shot off.

The bleeding proto-drake swept back around. It managed to get side-to-side, so close their wings were nearly touching. An orc leaped from her saddle and, either through madness or ingenuity, ran across the proto-drake's thick wing webbings and catapulted herself onto Samia's back.

Samia immediately rolled so her belly was up. The Dragonmaw did not fall off. Instead, a dull pain welled at the back of Samia's neck. It wasn't any drugged weapon; the sleepiness did not come. Samia snorted and began to buck up and down, upside down in the air. Malfas had since dropped off the proto-drake, his blue hide prickled so with arrows that on one side he resembled a porcupine, and hovered above Samia's exposed belly to keep the proto-drake from descending on her.

Samia twirled upright, then took the momentum to keep her roll. When she began to bank her body to the side, the Dragonmaw finally lost her grip and fell. Samia glanced back. A hook had been lodged at the base of her neck, trailing a long leather strap, as if the Dragonmaw hoped to take a hold of her by it.

One of the orcs yelled. The proto-drake swooped back into action. Malfas shrieked and shot out of the way, and the mount managed to snap onto the leather strap, obviously trained to do so. It pulled back, beating its wings backwards, and yanked Samia along with it towards the ground.

The pain had her head spinning. Knowing the agony would only be greater if she tried to outweigh the proto-drake, she flew along with them – and ended up outflying them. The leather grew slack and the pain along with it. It gave Azorka time to appear and shear through it with the point of her shark-like mouth. 

Samia flapped away from the proto-drake. The orcs snarled in frustration. Above, Vaxian and the large red proto-drake were trading vicious blows. Black and crimson scale alike fluttered down like fallen leaves from each of their impacts.

“Samia! Get out of the way!” Malfas yelled. The proto-drake she'd been fighting came after her. She folded her wings and dropped.

A fleshy collision sounded above her. She looked up as she opened her wings again to glide along the fog. The proto-drake that had gone after Pyria had smashed itself into Samia's. Pyria gracefully twirled away from her handiwork.

“Nice one!” Samia yelled up at her. Pyria grinned at her as the proto-drakes crashed to earth. “Take the nether-drakes out of here. Vaxian and I will finish off the Red.”

“But -”

“Linger longer and there's a higher chance they'll get you out of the sky. Go!”

Samia flapped her wings hard as she went off to aid Vaxian. She trusted Pyria – or any of the nether-drakes that had listened – to get away while they could.

Vaxian and the Red were grappling with one another in mid-air. The Red had his back legs scrabbling at Vaxian's, and the black dragon had latched his forelegs onto the beast's shoulders. The force of their combined wing-beats sent the fog and smoke swirling around their bodies in waves. 

Vaxian had one of the shot polearms embedded in his hindquarters. 

Samia shot up towards them. If she could get underneath the Red's belly, the fight would end the moment she gutted him. 

Whether the Red saw her as he tried to get a hold on Vaxian's own belly or if the rider did, Samia wasn't certain. Either way, as she flew towards his exposed stomach, talons extended, he suddenly jerked away from Vaxian's bloody embrace and bent his huge head towards her charge, flattening himself out like a wall.

She pummeled into his head. The bulk of his body lurched backwards at the blow, but since he had flattened himself out, the plates on his head and neck took the brunt of the force. Samia's head rung with the impact. 

Sharp pain sliced across her shoulder. Black scales fluttered down. The Red had slashed the barb at the end of his wing tips along her. 

Samia snarled, turned, and managed to strike her claw across the proto-drake's face, just below where the plates protected most of his skull. The beast hardly flinched. He opened his crocodile-like mouth and breathed a great gush of flame at her.

It swept over her harmlessly. 

Vaxian swept down on the Red. He grabbed a hold of the thick tail with his maw and began to dive in an attempt to drag the mount with him.

The Red screeched and writhed as the two began to plummet. With their combined weight, they dropped like a stone.

But the Red snapped out as he passed by Samia. His teeth closed around her own tail and he, like Vaxian, began to drag her down with them, as if they were a manner of links.

Below, Vaxian snarled with the added weight. He was forced to let go. The Red began to rise as his frantically beating wings gained quick altitude with the new lack of weight.

“Vaxian! Above and below!” Samia called. Two more shot polearms sailed past them; they were moving far too fast to be hit. 

Samia shot up. Vaxian angled himself so he was underneath the Red's belly.

With a roar, Samia dove down, and Vaxian spiraled up.

The Red tried to get out of the way through a dive. His rider was screaming obscenities at him, seeing Vaxian coming up and Samia coming down. 

As the proto-drake moved down, Vaxian smashed into him with such force that the Red's head jerked back; Samia thought Vaxian had broken the beast's neck until it roared in fury.

Samia cut the roar short by tackling the Red by the hindquarters.

The rider nearly fell off. She managed to hold on by one of the decorative spikes on the harness. Samia ignored the mortal and began to sink her teeth into the Red's hide in quick strikes, pulling away scale, then skin, then flesh. 

The proto-drake screamed and writhed. His wings buckled. Samia grunted and strained her wings to keep them upright; the strain lifted when Vaxian helped to lift the Red up, to keep him sandwiched between them so the two Black dragons could rip him apart. 

Talons from above sunk into Samia's shoulders and ripped her off of the Red.

She roared in anger and tried to move away. The grip was too tight. Even with her wings beating in the opposite direction, her assailant swept away from the Red with her in tow.

Bracing herself for the pain, Samia whipped herself to the left with the whole of her body. The talons upon her shoulders raked through flesh and coiled muscle with the movement. They let go.

Blood spraying from her wounds, Samia twirled back up.

The black dragon to attack her turned back around to face her.

Samia nearly dropped out of the air in shock. The dragon was almost as big as her father and armored with silver and red plate that ran down his neck, tail, and limbs; a helmet of similar color protected his face, with curved elephant-like tusks attached to each side. His body was painted in sharp red designs. A thick golden chain hung from his neck. 

He stared at her blankly as he hovered in mid-air, the harsh red webbings of his wings lit by Vaxian's fires atop the Auction House.

A roaring cheer rang up from the downed Dragonmaw. 

“Okrut! Okrut! Okrut!”

Samia backed up. She recognized the dragon. His red fins curved oddly on themselves, as if the were a half a rack of ribs down his neck. He had always been vain about them. 

The orc Okrut atop the dragon, looking for all the world a speck on the mount's great back, whipped him, and Serinar, former guardian of the Obsidian Dragonshrine, dived at her.


	31. Chapter 31

 

There was little mistaking the new dragon: it _was_ Serinar. The sudden shock of his appearance had Samia stalling, hovering in midair even as Serinar dove towards her.

But the flash of Okrut's black-steel armor catching the light of the fires broke her from her wide-eyed stare. She sucked her wings close to her body and dropped like a stone. Serinar swept at the air above her.

Her body clenched in protest as she spread her wings again. Serinar's earlier attack had dealt a terrible wound on her shoulder, right where her left wing met her back. She chanced a glance back as she rose into the fog. The hard-packed scales there were shredded, and the muscles raw and red against her black hide. 

Even a single flap of her wings brought awash new pain that stung tears into her eyes. The pain in her broken foreleg was nothing to this. 

A snarl from behind had her turning. The fog parted for Serinar as he flew up at her. His golden chain and red eyes glowed in the smog, a beacon. 

Samia used her upper-hand of height and dove down at him as he came up at her. He was far larger than she was, but the added acceleration from her dive gave her a new weight and force. She pummeled into the rising dragon with a roar. 

The impact rattled her. Dimly she was aware of claws scrabbling at her scales and teeth trying to find purchase at her neck. Samia ignored it. She focused on keeping the worst pains out of mind and on keeping a hold on the other dragon as they tumbled, interlocked, to the ground.

The fog dissolved around them. Samia opened her eyes, squinted through the various gaps as Serinar whipped his sinuous neck back and forth. She kicked her hind legs into the dragon's belly. 

A heady huff of breath escaped Serinar and he let go in surprise; Samia unlocked her claws and rose away. She smashed her tail down against the falling dragon.

She had hoped the force of their dive and the tail strike might have him, and his rider, shoved into the ground. Instead Serinar managed to right himself just before he could crash in a deft maneuver of swinging wings and tail. 

As before, he shot back up at her. The grounded Dragonmaw cheered a guttural cheer.

Another sound rose from the cheer – but far more bestial. The red proto-drake that Samia had been ripped from appeared before her and took up the scope of her vision, a wall of red and gold. Its ripped muscles waved like banners in the air.

Samia jerked back. The attack did not come. The Red instead turned away from her, honed towards a secondary target. Samia had forgotten about Vaxian in the shock of Serinar's appearance.

Vaxian hovered some yards away. He had not been able to hold onto the Red without Samia's assistance; he hosted a new gash across his chest from where the Red seemed to have torn free of him. It bled freely, smoking in the cooler air. 

Just as Serinar was upon her again, the Red collided with Vaxian. The two grappled. The Red was in a frenzy now, crazed from pain and its rider's screamed orders. 

Serinar dug his talons into Samia's shoulder as she heard a loud  _snap_ come from the Red and Vaxian. The Red teetered – but it was Vaxian who fell, one wing skewered at an unnatural angle.

Samia screeched. She smashed a paw into the side of Serinar's head as his maw descended. The other dragon grunted and pulled away. His gaze remained blank, impassive, the glassy eyes of some automaton come to life.

She cracked the side of his head again and again and again in a frenzy of blind movement. A fine crack splintered in his spiraling horn as she wailed on him. 

But her eyes were not for her work but for Vaxian: he had crashed, hard, and struggled to rise. Grounded Dragonmaw began to surround him.

A hateful bloodlust swelled within her. Samia screamed, a sound that was half-roar, half-screech, and pummeled her paw into Serinar's head one last time with such force one of his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

He let go and his wings folded. He collapsed into one of the trees and went still.

Samia dived down to Vaxian, trailing ribbons of blood.

Her brother was fighting off as well as he could, striking out with maw and paw. His right wing spread uselessly at his side. 

As Samia neared, frenzied, hateful, she did what she saw she could only do: she pulled at the ever-present hum in her chest and willed it up and out. It traveled to her talons and then shot towards the earth. The hum within her expanded as it took in the earth's own. Latent, but  _there_ .

She took a mental hold of the hum in the earth and pulled.

The earth surrounded Vaxian crushed upwards at her call, raw and wet. It encircled him, a natural wall too high for Dragonmaw to climb but small enough for Vaxian to leap over. Orcs caught atop the jutted rocks flew. Some struck the Auction House in a crunch of wood.

Samia landed from her dive atop the new wall, and her claws slipped on the dirt that remained clinging to the manipulated stone of the slope. She spread her one good wing over Vaxian and crouched and watched the Dragonmaw recollect themselves. Her elemental attack had a desirable side-effect: a stillness settled among the mountain. Even the grounded proto-drakes, who had begun to lope forward, now began to inch away, nervous and chattering.

It smelled like fresh earth and smoke and blood and Samia's ears were ringing. A headache began to itch at her skull. She would have to be careful of how much she would use the earth; she was on Azeroth, not Outland. Things lurked beneath her feet she did not wish to bring up.

“Samia, you have to go,” Vaxian said. His sonorous voice was raspy with his own blood as it leaked from his throat from some inner wound Samia did not care to think about. “I cannot fly.”

“We can jump off the cliff-side,” Samia said. The Dragonmaw were beginning to get their wits about them again. The Red swooshed above them, and Samia snarled, but the orc rider atop it landed it on the other side of the Auction House, far away from them. Samia frowned at that. 

“They'll catch up to us. Two of the proto-drakes can still fly. Please, Samia, go; I will not have you captured with me.”

“Can you stop with the fatalistic approach, Vaxian?” 

She stopped and tensed. The Dragonmaw began to pull the grounded proto-drakes towards them, and the beasts shook their heads and hissed. Their chains rattled. When had there been so many orcs? Had Serinar brought more atop his back?

Samia pulled at the earth again. In great chunks, rocks burst from the ground, a natural catapult of force. Each hovering sphere of crude rock remained a pinpoint of energy, alive and humming in her consciousness. Hers to control.

She threw them from the air without physical touch. The boulders whipped forward. Silent. Passive all until they crunched into groups of Dragonmaw and the approaching proto-drakes. Bones splintered. One orc flattened beneath a boulder. Another boulder cracked the leg of one of the proto-drakes, which fell with a shriek. 

For a mere instant a haze of satisfaction spread within her.

Samia shook her head and turned to the group of orcs from behind her. Vaxian's mouth was moving but Samia didn't know what he was saying. The Dragonmaw there were shouting at one another; they ripped the loaded pikes they had shot up at the sky from before and began to turn them towards her. Odd, that they were now pulling away the proto-drakes to where the Red had gone. 

Samia plucked up more rough rock from the ground. The orcs shot their wicked pikes. 

She hurdled the new boulders toward the projectiles; the wooden weapons exploded into hundreds of splinters. The orcs dodged the boulders as they came crashing down, the boulders trailing wood still whipped away from their surfaces like a comet's trail. 

“You cannot keep them off forever!” Vaxian cried, his voice punching through Samia's focus. “Serinar is coming back. You have to go.”

Samia looked up. Indeed Serinar had struggled to his feet and was beginning to lope towards them in powerful, bull-like strides. Branches and vines had entangled in his wings, trapping them to his sides.

“They're protecting the proto-drakes,” Samia rasped. When had she run out of breath? “They're going to shoot at us from afar than risk their animals dying outright. It's only the orcs. I can hold off Serinar.”

“Samia -”

Serinar was upon them. He collected himself, muscles bunching, and leaped. 

Samia snarled. She thrust out a claw and the ground in front of Serinar plunged forward in a spike.

Okrut cried out and the golden chain on Serinar's neck glowed. The dragon jerked away in a disturbing, unnatural motion, as if he had been yanked back and to the side by some invisible hand. The spike did not gut him as it would have but instead scored him on his left side. 

He landed inches from the outer rock wall. Samia flicked her still-raised claw and the rocks closest to Serinar smashed into his face. The dragon snarled and lurched back. Two of his front teeth fell out of his mouth.

Samia's head began to ache and hum. She knew she was pushing too much of her elemental stores. But she had no choice. She continued on. 

Serinar tried to come at her again and Samia pelted him with smaller rocks, arrow-head like in shape and size. The other dragon roared in frustration as he was forced to back up; he held his head high to shield Okrut from the assault.

Then Serinar roared again. Flames flickered in the depths of his maw. He shoved his head down to the ground and scooped up a heap of the fallen projectiles and swallowed them. Samia managed to strike Okrut across the face with a larger rock as Serinar moved his protective head away, and the orc gasped in pain as blood rain down his face.

Angry that he had been struck, Okrut whipped Serinar. The dragon flailed his trapped wings and shook off the entangled branches.

He leaped into the air.

Samia raised a chunk of stone so large that the force of keeping it aloft set all her limbs to shaking.

She threw it. If it hit it would surely shatter Serinar's rib-cage.

Serinar opened his mouth, yellowed teeth a grim flash, and spat a smoking wad of lava from his gullet.

It tore through the boulder like a flame through paper. Molten bits of rock showered downwards; Serinar shot through the burning debris, a blur of black and red and metal.

He crashed into her. They went tumbling. Samia felt her back strike the opposite end of the rock wall and then disappear underneath her.

Her head smashed noisily into wood. They had fallen into the side of the Auction House. The fire had gone out but the thick killing smoke remained, though Samia breathed through the filtered valve in her nostrils and did not begin to suffocate.

They came to a halt there against the side, a hole punctured through the burnt building. Serinar had landed atop her: a dangerous position.

Serinar sank his teeth into her shoulder. For a terrible moment Samia found she didn't have the strength to raise her good foreleg to defend herself. Her muscles felt like fuzz, unmoving. Then she heard Vaxian roar and a great  _whoosh_ of flames followed, and a new, tired energy surged back into her, the last stores of adrenaline.

She scrambled her hing legs and found purchase on Serinar's soft belly. Her talons raked against leather straps and metal buckles. With a snarl she pushed, her legs shaking with effort, and Serinar's hold on her neck loosened as he tried to reposition himself in his crouch. Samia took the chance of the slackened hold and writhed away in a violent twist. She broke more off the outer wall and sent wood whisking off. 

When she stood she nearly collapsed again; multiple splinters, long as her claw, had caught into her shoulder wound. The fresh pain remained a clenching hold. She stumbled.

But the splinters presented an idea, and as Serinar righted himself, his scales coated with soot, Samia tore away a freer piece of wood with a sharpened edge and plunged it into the other dragon's shoulder.

It sunk to the bone. Serinar shrieked. 

And for the briefest of moments his eyes reflected a lucidity Samia had not seen there before. 

“Serinar, it's Samia,” she said. “The orcs are controlling you.” Why else would he fight, and look so dead in gaze? Now that she was near-to-collapse, the only thing Samia could do was appeal to him. 

Serinar whipped his head back and forth and shrieked again. She wasn't sure if he heard her through the pain. Okrut was yelling something unimportant and began to raise his whip again. 

Serinar stopped, snorted, and looked at her – pointedly. He snorted again and narrowed his eyes, and then the whip came down and the chain glowed, and the blankness in his gaze returned and he loped forward.

Samia backed up. She chanced a glance behind Serinar as he advanced. Vaxian was holding off the grounded Dragonmaw by spitting churned clouds of flame, but he could not attack from all sides. Two pikes were already embedded into his right flank, and Samia could not be sure when the next might be drugged. 

She glanced back at Serinar. He was limping as bad as she was. 

He lowered his head and charged.

Samia did not meet him in the charge but stayed still. She used the last pools of her energy to will the earth to hold her in place, and as Serinar rushed into her, she moved not. The pain was immense as she took all the brunt force of the tackle; it shook her to the palms but she did not sway, immovable like stone. 

It had the effect she'd hoped for: Serinar lurched back as the force redoubled back into him. 

Samia lunged forward at his off-balanced stance and crushed him to the ground. Now she was the one atop.

Okrut had jumped off to avoid being crushed. She didn't care. She dug her good foreleg's talons into the thrashing dragon's neck and her back legs' onto his belly. Only now did she feel on her chest where Serinar's tusks, attached to his helm, had dug in when he'd rammed into her.

A spark of neon from where Vaxian was holding off the other Dragonmaw had her hesitating, and she looked up. Azorka and Okelaka had come back. Azorka zipped through the orcs and pushed down their pikes and Okelaka fluttered around Vaxian. Samia hoped the others had gotten away. 

But even with their assistance the Dragonmaw kept creeping closer. They had mounted hooks now. Barbed. Like the drugged poles in the Auction House.

Desperation fueled her anger. Samia looked back at Serinar, still writing underneath her.

Whatever was controlling Serinar hardly mattered.  _Serinar_ hardly mattered. All that mattered was getting away with Vaxian in tow.

Samia struck. Her jaws enclosed around the dragon's bobbing jugular. She began to rip back.

And then she couldn't move. 

Samia blinked. She could feel Serinar squirming, his claws ripping desperately at her hide, but she remained still, frozen. It was not the feeling of before, when sheer exhaustion had forced her muscles into a stand-still, but something like a suspension in space, crippled. 

A black haze began to emanate from her body. Fear struck her as she thought of the Old Gods and all their dark magic, but then Serinar managed to twist his neck away and his soft flesh came out of her jaws. He pushed her off and got to his feet, and only then, jostled by the other dragon, did Samia see Wrathion off to her left, his hand raised. From it shot the same dark haze that now surrounded her. He had bound her with some sort of curse. She glowered and snarled; Wrathion stared at her, his face a mask of emotion. Collected, calm.

Beyond her she could see Vaxian falling, hides barbed with the pikes, and Okelaka crashing to earth in a silent tumble. Azorka had been brought down, snared in a wheel of rope; no thrashing freed her.

Samia could not move to help. The slope stilted into silence. They'd lost.

\---

The past half hour had been a misery.

Not because Wrathion was in any physical pain, of course. He had stayed back during much of the fighting, though some of the wind had blown loose soot from the fires into his face and had stained his tabard.

Staying back wasn't out of cowardice, in his own opinion. Wrathion simply hadn't wanted to be out in the open. If one of the black dragons had seen him, he'd been swiped at and there would be the end of his young life.

So he had stayed and watched. He had seen dragons fighting before, when Sabellian and Alexstrasza had traded blows. But then he had been right in the middle of it, and it had been nighttime, and he had gone through the smoke and flames while held in a claw. This time he'd seen the full scope of the great scuffle, though he was unsure if a proto-drake really counted in a dragon-on-dragon dogfight.

Then there had been the  _other_ dragon to consider: the large one from the mountains, trailed by nether-drakes. The one Wrathion had sent his favorite assassin to kill.  _That_ dragon's appearance had rankled him, and he questioned the assassin's whereabouts. He'd hoped they hadn't died.

But Wrathion's annoyance for the male dragon's appearance was but a vague outline in comparison to his disbelief when the largest of the dragons arrived over the mountains, decked in all Dragonmaw garb and very much under Dragonmaw control. One look at this stranger had told Wrathion that this was no son of Sabellian: the horns were wrong and the body shape too lithe, and he was far too old. 

_That_ was someone out of the brood.

Wrathion had gawked. Later, he was glad everyone else was too busy watching the fight and putting out the fires and had not seen the look on his face; he must've looked the fool, wide-eyed and confused and enraged all in one great sweep across his face.

The stranger's fight with Samia, at least, had been a true dragon fight. Had he not been so angry and bewildered at the stranger's appearance he might have found it as enthralling as he'd found the proto-drake battle. 

But then Samia had opened herself up to attack. She had been close enough – and so Wrathion had taken his chance. He hadn't any hesitation about it; it was simply something that had to be done, and it gave Madam Goya, in a wordless signal, that he'd accepted her offer: he would cooperate with both her and the Dragonmaw and deliver the dragons. Had he let her go, she may have escaped. And that wouldn't have sat well with him. 

It was not his wordless acceptance nor his interruption of Samia's kill-strike, nor the fact he had ushered Samia and the others into chains, that bothered him now and prodded him into a misery. No – it was the stranger, the dragon he did not know. As the Dragonmaw had drugged Samia and her brother and the two foolish nether-drakes who had returned to help – why had they done such a thing to such a lost cause? - and chained them, Wrathion had watched the newcomer.

He was about as large as Sabellian had been, Wrathion supposed, and weighed down by saddle and metal plate and a helmet with tusk. He even sported Dragonmaw glyphs in red paint as bright as his wing and fin webs, which bothered Wrathion in some strange way he couldn't place. 

Stranger still was how the Dragonmaw hadn't chained the dragon, when they had already re-chained the proto-drakes, even the red Galakras, after their wounds had been hurriedly patched by orcs whose hands were now covered in red-black proto blood up to their elbows. These drakes now lined up near the Auction House and shifted and grunted and growled.

The strange dragon only stood there, staring off at the opposite end of the slope. He did not make a sound as two Dragonmaw heaved out the four foot long plank from his shoulder and Okrut, the rider, did not hold onto the dragon's reins.

Was it trust in the dragon that let him be so flippant in control? No – it couldn't have been. No dragon, not even a mad Black Dragon, would agree to follow a Dragonmaw orc.

Wrathion eyed the dragon's face. Who  _was_ this? He had already sent an orc agent into the throng to investigate. How could – how had – his head felt like tangled wire. Every new thought, whirling, piled further anxiety and anger in his mind. Worse still there was a steady and unyielding hum in his mind, daring to drive him to snap at all but himself.

Wrathion forced himself to look away and glance over the rest of the slope. Zaela had been right; the devastation of dragons was something to behold. The Auction House remained smoldering, and even from his distance Wrathion could smell its burn and crushed wood. The ever-present fog above looked dim and dark with the coalesced smoke that had risen to join it , and the ground was littered with upturned boulders. A chunk of the Veiled Stair's landscape had become one of smoothed bumps and rolls to one of hard crag and jutted rock, sprayed with darkening red of dragon blood and black of dragon flame. 

His very own little battlefield in his backyard. Charming.

Wrathion spotted Warlord Zaela as he scanned the slope. She walked away from Samia's brother and had begun to inspect Samia's bindings. The dragon lay still, far too drugged and weak to even move her head.

Anger swelled in his chest as Wrathion watched the Warlord. He walked forward, direct in his stride, and two agents followed.

“Who is that?” Wrathion demanded once he had come within yelling distance to Warlord Zaela. The orc glanced at him, followed his gaze, and snorted.

“That is Ashmaw.”

“What a stupid name.”

Zaela grunted. “You can complain to Okrut. He named the beast.”

This was cause for alarm. “Ashmaw was not their name? What was – is it?”

“I don't know and I don't care, hatchling.” Zaela jerked her head to the direction of the Auction House. “Leave us to our business.”

Wrathion drew himself up. “I helped you and I am cooperating. This _is_ my business, Warlord.” He looked at “Ashmaw” again. The dragon hadn't moved. Wrathion wondered if he even blinked. “And why is he here, then?”

“What?”

“No dragon would willingly serve you,” Wrathion said, and did nothing to hide his distaste. “So why is he here?”

Zaela studied him. Behind her, the orcs began to run long metal cables between Samia and Vaxian; the ends of these were clamped onto the dragons' neck braces. They were, as he understood it, preparing to take them to none other than the Vale of Eternal Blossoms by way of flight. “Ashmaw” would be the lead flier; he had only come to the mountains to help transport the new acquisitions in the first place.

“I am sure from where you cowered you saw Okrut use the whip,” Zaela said.

Wrathion ignored the insult. “ _Yes_ . But he isn't chained. A dragon that size would hardly feel the pain of a whip, let alone one flicked by a single orc's hand. I'm not so dull as to believe that's the only thing keeping him here.”

Zaela rolled her eyes. “You are a pest. Fine. I told you before that there are other ways to control dragons besides the whip; Ashmaw obeys because of the Demon Chain.”

Wrathion frowned. He eyed the still dragon. The name did not sound familiar.

“It's the last remnant of the Dragon Soul,” Zaela offered, and she smiled, smug, as Wrathion widened his eyes. He caught himself and resumed his vacantly curious stare.

“Ah,” he said, lamely. The Chain was obvious now: thick-linked and gold, it circled the base of Serinar's neck, and connected to the horn of the saddle by way of an iron clamp looped through one of the links. The clamp looked crude and ugly in comparison to the smooth craftsmanship of the Chain.

Wrathion had never heard of the artifact. The concept of it was so remarkably disturbing to him he began to wish he had not asked Zaela at all. That a simple  _chain_ , one once connected to the Dragon Soul or no, might force a dragon to obey... he suppressed a shudder. It was unnatural, and reminded him too much of the servitude of the Old Gods. 

“You will use it on Samia and her brother, then, I imagine?”

“Who?”

“The girl. The girl dragon?”

Zaela shrugged.

Wrathion glanced at his cousin. The drugs had made her gaze clouded and indistinct, though their edges were creased in barely-suppressed pain. She did not look at him but at her brother as they added a brace to his broken wing.

Wrathion turned away before he could think too much on it. He had made his choice when he'd bound Samia and nothing more; if the Dragonmaw used the Chain, fine. The dragons would be dead in no more than a week, anyway.

“Do you want something else?” The gruffness of Zaela's voice suggested that he  _not_ need something else for his health's sake.

“Yes. Where did you get Ashmaw?”

Zaela stared at him. “Do you take me for an idiot? I see what you're asking, kin-killer. Go away.”

Wrathion grit his teeth. He'd thought the question innocuous. 

For whoever this Ashmaw was, he had come from somewhere, and not from Outland (or so Wrathion assumed). Wrathion rubbed at the side of his face and felt loose soot from the Auction House fire come off, cloyingly soft, onto his fingers. 

He dreaded. Ashmaw's simple act of  _being_ presented an ugly idea: if Wrathion had not known of his existence, would there be more black dragons in  _Azeroth_ ? Wrathion had hardly entertained such an idea when Sabellian had come. Sabellian's brood was in Outland; the fact that a brood remained stars away was an oversight, as stupid and unfortunate as it was, and the mistake would soon be swept under the rug.

But Ashmaw – Ashmaw's appearance felt more insulting. Wrathion thought he'd taken  _care_ of Azeroth. He'd searched everywhere, even sending rogues to scour places he could not mentally reach. The failure of not checking Outland had turned out badly; the realization of his failure even to Azeroth was a sour clench of his gut, ugly and one he did not wish to face, but would have to.

Zaela walked away from him. His silence seemed to signal to her that their conversation was over. Wrathion remained staring off into space, his jaw clenched and his mood worsening with each unhappy thought that grabbed at him. Discovering that very first drake in Blade's Edge had been like shearing away a curtain – and suddenly he could see the scope of his mistakes as they presented themselves in the new light, a rippling domino.

“Prince Wrathion -”

Anger at himself burst outward, transformed into anger at everyone else. “ _What_ ?” He snapped. 

He had hardly seen the agent, the brown-skinned, tall human that had delivered his messages some days ago, appear at his side. The rogue winced.

“I – well, there is an urgent report for you.”

Wrathion stuck out his hand and gestured wildly to the smoking scene before him, out at all the dragons and orcs and char. “Do you think I have time for regular reports? I'm  _busy_ .”

“Yes, sir, but this is straight from the Vale.”

Wrathion hesitated. Activity in the Vale had escalated to a sort of frantic activity; it was sure to soon explode. Sighing, Wrathion nodded. “Alright. What is it?”

The Agent pulled out a scroll from an odd, slim pocket that was strapped tight to his chest-piece. He unrolled it, looked it over, and cleared his throat. “The goblins seem to be getting close to whatever they are looking for, though my reports show that they are having some difficulties in continuing.”

“That sickness?”

The Agent nodded. “Nonetheless they do continue, but at a slower pace,” he said. The rogue glanced further down the page. “Garrosh Hellscream is set to arrive in three days time.”

Wrathion frowned. If Garrosh was coming to the Vale, it meant a promised violence. The Warchief cursed everywhere he walked with a touch of carnage. “There's no reports of what they're looking for?”

“No, my Prince.”

Wrathion wiped the soot from his fingers. He glanced at the dragons. The orcs had finished binding Vaxian's wing, and they had staunched the worst of the wounds on both siblings, and on Ashmaw. 

And then, in a clarifying suddenness, the tangle of wire in his thoughts unraveled. The news of the Vale had allowed a single point of concentration, and Wrathion held onto it. He knew what had to be done.

“Thank you,” he said to the agent, and in such an enthusiastic voice the agent winced in surprise.

“Left!” Wrathion called. Behind him, the orc drew to attention. She had been barred by order to stay in the Tavern, whose patio she now perched on; the orc had come rushing down the moment the fires had started, though Wrathion had bid her not to leave the inn. 

Wrathion turned to her. “I'm going inside to think things through. Pray set up some guards here,” he said.

The orc nodded, though she remained frowning.

The agent guarding his right, the female worgen that had been with him on the Secret Aerie, voiced her own confusion. “You are going to leave the dragons?” 

“Yes.”

“Oh. I see. Well, alright.”

Wrathion began to walk. When he was close to the Tavern, Left gave him a curious look and spoke in a lowered voice. “How many guards would you like on the Dragonmaw, my Prince?”

“Minimal. Enough to know what is going on. Send all the rest we have to the Vale and to Orgrimmar. Some to Stormwind, too.”

Left frowned.

“I think it is time I'm done with being distracted by dragons, don't you, Left?” Wrathion murmured to her as he stepped up on the patio. “This news about the Vale –  _that_ is what's truly important. What will happen there and with the Horde and Alliance will shape this world's destiny! Stray dragons will not.” He nodded to himself. Ashmaw  _was_ something to consider. There was no denying that. But the War was what was truly important now. He had to remember that; he had set out with a goal in the very beginning of this campaign, and he  _had_ to see it through. Distractions of dragons thought dead could not pull him away now, when this Pandaren story was coming to a close. 

Left stared at him – and then she gave him a rare smile, a wisp of a gesture on her face.

“It's about time,” she said. 

\---

Shadowmoon Valley had more tolerable weather than Blade's Edge Mountains. Mordenaku shuffled his wings closer to his body. This dry heat was near unbearable, and unwavering in its intensity. At least Shadowmoon had _some_ vague humidity. Here, it felt as if his skin was beginning to crack. 

Perhaps it was because he had lived in Shadowmoon all his life that he found this place so intolerable. Many called Shadowmoon a hell-hole, which Mordenaku found a misplaced insult. Yes, there were demons and fel-flame, but where was there not on Outland?

He shook his head. Perspective, perspective. He should not complain so much, even to his own mind.

Mordenaku had arrived days before when Neltharaku had bid him come. He hadn't seen any of the Black Dragons since Sabellian and his eldest daughter, Samia, had come to Shadowmoon to speak of alliances. Seeing other dragons, different but in a way, so like him, grated him as odd but appealing.

But the black dragons were not healthy. He remembered the shine of Samia's scales and the lean form of her muscles. She'd been well fed. The dragons Sabellian had left behind were not.

Barthamus had not been exaggerating his tales. Mordenaku had arrived on a day when the group tasked with bringing food from Zangarmarsh had come back, and had seen the paltry servings and the exhaustion of the workers. The food was half rotten, and stank of fungus and decay. The water from Zangarmarsh, at least, remained untarnished, though was more difficult to transport than the food.

The pickings had already shaved off some pounds from the dragons at Blade's Edge. Their heads and wings drooped. The whelps played minimally. A dragon lived for fresh blood. Picking at three-day-old carcasses was begging for malnourishment.

Mordenaku watched them now as he sat atop one of the more clean-shaven cliff-faces, one, miraculously, free of the Mountains' wicked spikes. Food had arrived not from Zangarmarsh, but from Netherstorm, in the form of warpstalkers and even two plated rock flayers. Mordenaku had taken little, but his gut churned.

Someone approached him from the side. Mordenaku looked over. He bowed his head. His father, the dragon Neltharaku, came limping up towards him, favoring one foreleg.

“Father,” Mordenaku greeted. He raised his head, and the crystals growing loose from his spiral horns chimed in their rustling. “I hope you had your fill of food.”

“I had but a taste,” Neltharaku said as he sat next to his eldest son. “I'm afraid both species do not agree with me.”

“Yes. I concur.” The two watched the black dragons below pick at their food. “I do not care for this weather.”

“It is certainly something one must get used to.”

Mordenaku shifted. He always had trouble wondering when to get into the meat of a conversation. Had he said enough polite, idle talk? “I suppose we should not be complaining about the food selection, though, when those have been working far harder than us.”

“Very.” Neltharaku's eyes were narrowing. That was usually a sign that Mordenaku should change the subject.

“Father, I must confess I remain confused as to my coming here. Everything seems well under control.” It would be his turn next to go hunting for food, as groups rotated, but there was already so many here helping. “I am not complaining, of course.”

“No. I doubt you would ever do that.” Neltharaku extended his left wing in an idle stretch. “I suppose we could have done without you... though I find that a secondary authority figure helps keep the more unruly drakes in line.”

Mordenaku frowned. “Father, forgive me, but you are the high-broodfather of the Netherwing. I doubt my presence here shocks them into action no more than yours does.”

“Does mine, truly? I wonder, these days.”

“Father?”

Neltharaku looked at his son. His eyes shown like pearls in their sockets, pupiless. “You and I are the only nether dragons here. Yes. The work load can be done without you. But your presence is a reminder for them.”

Mordenaku blinked, then nodded. He understood. With both the high-broodfather and the heir to the title there, overseeing those helping the black dragons, the nether drakes there would remember who was in charge. Once, that was unquestioned. Now, with how voiced Barthamus grew, the Netherwing teetered. It was a vague shift, like little fractures in ice, but with enough cracks, that ice could shatter.

“Did my uncle try to stir trouble  _here_ ?”

Neltharaku hesitated. “It was the usual slander he spoke. Ideas of taking Blade's Edge, Nagrand. Idle anger.” The great nether dragon breathed out, and a glow of nether, white like ice, curled from his nostrils. “I still didn't want him here. I thought he might have tempered his moods in this crisis, but he did the opposite.”

“I find it off his opinions are reached with willing ears.”

“I don't.”

Mordenaku started. “What?”

“If I am to think that all of the Netherwing follow me without question, I would be a poor leader indeed.”

Mordenaku frowned. “I don't know about such a way of thinking. That seems pessimistic.” What leader didn't believe all of one's subjects followed? Yes, Barthamus was trying to make others agree with him with his ideas of uprooting – among other things – from Shadowmoon, but Mordenaku doubted that those that readily listened to him truly gave his uncle credence.

“Did you not just say that there were those willing to listen to Barthamus?”

“Yes, but I didn't mean -”

“Regardless of what you meant, the truth of it is that there _are_ those who agree with Barthamus in all respects.” Neltharaku glanced down at the eating black dragons meaningfully.

“Perhaps you should make some sort of statement, Father, against Barthamus.”

Neltharaku chuckled. “A _statement?_ I think you may have been listening to mortal royal customs too much, Mordenaku.”

Mordenaku ducked his head in embarrassment. He often made a habit of asking mortals who visited Shadowmoon – too few, these days – about the workings of their nobility or leadership, as he had no books to learn such from. Mordenaku was supposed to be a prince, and what sort of prince did not know how to act like one?

“But you should not worry over a 'statement.' My sending of Barthamus back was all the 'statement' the Netherwing needed to see my disapproval of him.”

“You sent him back to Shadowmoon, though. There are far more dragons there he can stir trouble with.”

“In a way, yes. But by sending him away, the drakes here will realize I will not tolerate such opinions, and the drakes at Shadowmoon, too, will realize such when they see Barthamus return. It will remind them of who leads, truly – which cycles back to why I brought you here.” Neltharaku shook his head. “When Barthamus was here, drakes chattered over why they had to help the black dragons. They complained. Pointed out our history with them. Now? There is silence.”

“Oh.”

Neltharaku nodded. They watched the mountains.

“I don't really understand why any agree with Barthamus at all,” Mordenaku admitted after a while. “I do enjoy Shadowmoon Valley, despite its faults, and I hardly see why moving to other lands would help. We do splendidly.” He glanced at the black dragons and frowned. “And our alliance with the Black Dragonflight is doing well. For them, yes, but when we need help, we will have it.” He looked at his father. Mortals had told him, once, that the nether dragon profiles resembled those of a creature called a “shark,” sharp and precise. “Is it all idle annoyances, that they agree so easily?”

Neltharaku considered in silence. Finally, he frowned. “I would be a fool to forget my hatching,” he said, and Mordenaku stared at him. What did that have to do with anything? Neltharaku looked out to the south, far down the barbed valley, toward some of the black dragons' caves. “I hatched here, in Blade's Edge,” he continued. His voice had grown low, almost reverent, as he recalled the past. “As did we all.”

“I know this, Father. I don't -”

“Allow me to finish,” Neltharaku cut in. Mordenaku bowed his head. His father nodded, content with the submission, before he continued. “The first thing I smelled was the dry winds of this valley, my son. And the first thing I saw was Sabellian's disgusted look as I emerged from the shell.”

Mordenaku shifted awkwardly.

“He only stared. He did not speak, even when the rest of us hatched. We clamored for food and he did not move. It was finally his mate Kesia that tended to us, briskly as she did.”

Neltharaku fell silent. Mordenaku raised his eyes from their submissive stare at the floor. He had heard parts of this story before, but never all of it. Despite his curiosity, he still wondered as to its relevance.

“Despite my age, I knew we were different,” Neltharaku continued after a time. “I knew he was not my broodfather; he had black scales and we lacked scales at all. We glowed and shined in bright colors. It was later, when we could easily understand, that Sabellian told us what we were. Or had been.” He paused, thoughtful in his frown. “Some were the sons and daughters of Deathwing; others, various relatives from the Black Flight. We learned all about our dark heritage... and yet, we were not the same.”

“And then he cast you out,” Mordenaku supplied. “When you were old enough, he told you to leave.” That had not been long after the nether dragons had hatched, he knew. Thanks to their warping through nether, nether dragons had ended up growing at an alarming rate; they were never whelps for long.

“Yes.” Neltharaku glanced at the black dragons below again – not with malice. Just with curiosity. “We weren't wanted there. Many of the black dragons wanted nothing to do with us. So we left.”

“To the Crystal Spine and the Vortex Summit.” Mordenaku grew tired of this story. He _knew_ it. When would his father get to the point?

Neltharaku was either ignorant of his son's impatience, or didn't care. He continued in his slow, echoing voice. “Our crystals blossomed. Never before had we seen them grow, but there, along the dusty outskirts, our energy sprouted before us in physical manifestations. The landscape transformed at our presence. We thrived with them, as we do in Shadowmoon.” Neltharaku glanced towards where the Crystal Spine was, far, far to the west, behind the arakkoa's dense forestry, unseeable. “We grew with them, and lived, until the black dragons again took notice of us.”

“Obsidia,” Mordenaku said, and Neltharaku nodded.

“I do not know what happened to cause the other dragon mates to separate from Sabellian's brood. When I was a hatchling, I saw Sabellian fight the largest of them: Hemathion. But for what cause? I am unsure, even now. But I do know that such festering tension burst, years after Sabellian bid us to leave. And those dragons came to inhabitable lands: ours.”

Mordenaku said nothing. All of the nether dragons might not know the exact story of their Flight's hatching in so intimate detail as Mordenaku now did, but  _all_ knew the history of the Summit and the Spine.

“Obsidia and Hemathion took over the Vortex Summit, and Furywing and Insidion, the Crystal Spine. They ignored us, at first. They had their broods there. We stayed out of their way. And then they became violent.”

“How beautiful our crystals had grown; in the two years that the black dragons stationed themselves in our lands, the fields blossomed into colossal stages as some of us neared dragonhood. Yes, later, we learned Obsidia had pushed for our removal so they might have the Fields to themselves. But when the couples began to push us out, hateful in their earnest attacks, we were lost in their reasoning. But we fled all the same. Scattered. Exiled from our hatching place.”

Most had fled to Shadowmoon, where none could find them, Mordenaku knew - where they might be left alone to thrive. Some had gone elsewhere, but most, now, had accumulated in Shadowmoon, united in their sameness.

“And when the Dragonmaw came, Sabellian and the other Black Dragons ignored our plight. They turned a blind eye.” Neltharaku sighed. “Even my mother was a menace to us, stealing our eggs, letting us remain in servitude.”

That had been a dark lesson, so many years ago. No one had quite realized who the black dragon had been, the one who had visited the Dragonmaw camps and had been given Nether Dragon eggs. But one drake had heard her name: Sintharia. Sintharia. It'd been repeated in hateful whispers before it had finally reached one of those who had learned of their heritage from Sabellian, and had realized it was Deathwing's consort. They had never told the black dragons in Blade's Edge about her visit.

“The point of this, Mordenaku, is that I understand Barthamus and those that agree with him so easily. Truly, I do. I understand their wishes and hatreds. How could I forgive the Black Flight for their disgust? Their violence against us? It festers inside of those nether dragons at how easily I forgave. Getting Sabellian to agree to an alliance was a difficult task; getting Barthamus and those that agreed with him to follow through with it, even more so. Barthamus wishes to break it now solely for his anger.”

“But I knew that, united, we were stronger. Alone, we could be overrun. Together...” Neltharaku looked up at the red sky. “Why, think of the mortals. We could not break out of our chains with the Dragonmaw. But with help, we overcame. I learned, then, facing the world alone does not make one strong in their singularity. It makes one weak when greater threats come.”

“Look now. Do you believe the Black Dragonflight here would be able to sustain themselves during this hardship, had it not been for us?”

“I... no, Father.”

“And when the demons come, will we be able to fight them off ourselves?”

“Father?” Mordenaku frowned. Indeed, the increasing demon number had been one thing to push the Netherwing's alliance with Sabellian's Flight in the first place, but his father's chosen words seemed to suggest a more ominous threat.

Neltharaku sighed. He had still not fully recovered from the poisoning, and it showed in how his gel-like skin sagged against his body. “Barthamus may believe he is right. But he is not. I know what I have done is the best choice.”

“Even staying in Shadowmoon?” Mordenaku asked. He lowered his head. It was not spoken in contest, but in curiosity; even still, showing submission was a careful out.

“Yes. Our crystals grow massively in Blade's Edge, that is true; I see why Barthamus wishes to put broods here. And there is more plentiful food in Nagrand and in Terokkar. But why move when Shadowmoon is already a plethora of our life, our home? The Netherwing Fields grow larger even than the Crystal Spine. To move, to separate – it would be foolish. What would it accomplish? Nothing. Only more land we don't need; Barthamus only wants more to have more. We thrive where we are. You must trust me.”

“I do.”

“Let us hope the majority of the Netherwing feel the same way,” Neltharaku murmured.

\---

The last four days had passed by in fuzzy, dark sequences.

Even now, beginning to stir into sharper consciousness, Samia struggled to remember past details. She recalled, at least, their departure and arrival. They had only given Samia, her brother and the nether-drakes enough tranquilizers to subdue them. They could still fly – and fly they did. Connected by chains and cables of metal, they were led by Serinar and hoisted up by proto-drake from below in a series of interlocking collars. Samia hardly had to fly at all; the proto-drakes did the brunt of the work. She'd tried squirming out of her hold, once, but she didn't have the energy to continue. She hadn't been so exhausted, so crippled, since Gruul had come in his second wave.

Serinar and the Dragonmaw had flown them to the north of the Veiled Stair, up and through the mountains. Once through the ridge, they'd glided into an entirely new landscape. The small band of mountains they'd crossed dipped down into shining efflorescence, as if they flew over a jeweled bowl. Golden grass grew and stretched and rolled over a shining vale, bumping over undulating hills and encircling incandescent lakes, so bright it reflected the warm sun. Alabaster trees, thick of yellow leaves, dotted the fields and sheltered elegant cranes hunting the dancing water skimmers on the lake surfaces, and the architecture, gold and curling and ornamental, grand and ancient in design, nestled to the east, north, and south. Colossal statues of untold race stood guard in the center of this bliss, shadowing a pagoda, minute under their august height, from the sun.

The beauty and sheer scope of the vale in comparison to the dredges and ash of the Veiled Stair had shocked her. It felt as if she were flying into some sort of dream, untouchable, unreal. Even the very wind was warm and soothing along her aching wings and bleeding sides.

But instead of leading them to one of those welcome shrines or shaded spots, they led them to the only imperfection in the vale: an ugly, mile-long pit of blackened earth and wafting dust, a scar among the shine.

The Horde was there, though most were just goblins and orcs, the latter a prominent distinction in the working crowd. The Dragonmaw hadn't allowed the group of dragons much time to scan the area, or realize what was going on there – perhaps some sort of archaeological dig, which prompted Samia to wonder as to why they had been taken to such a place – for they were soon herded into one of the buildings once they had unclasped their chains from Serinar's guiding one.

They'd been hooded like falcons and separated. When they had taken the blindfold off, after much grumbling and snapped orders from the orcs' part, Samia had found herself inside and in darkness, chained in an enclosure like a horse in its stall. The stable smelled of bitter timber and dust and metal. It was newly built.

Administering further tranquilizers had seemed like overkill with the amount of bindings they'd placed on her. The orcs had done it anyway.

And so there'd she lay, dizzy with drugs and waking little. She remembered eating, once, but didn't remember what the meal had been. She remembered orcs coming to stare at her, but recalled not what they'd said. She remembered someone sewing up her wounds, but she hadn't felt pain.

Today was the first time in four days she'd gained enough clarity to think critically instead of in shapeless impressions. They must've not re-administered the tranquilizers. She forced an eye open.

The same darkness she'd recalled from the past days greeted her. Feeble ribbons of light streamed through cracks in the wood and through the exit doors of the stable, far off to the right, barely seen through her metal cage. They didn't light much; they only served as a reminder of the outside sun.

At least there were torches, hooked into crude iron holds, but even they lit the dimness only vaguely. They did allow her to see the full of the stable in fuzzy red impressions. She noted that Vaxian and the other nether-drakes were not in the other stalls, but instead proto-drakes, their glowing eyes like embers in a dying hearth as they stared at her from their dark corners.

A shift in the darkness, shadows sliding against shadows, had her looking to her right. The enclosure next to her, once empty, held Serinar.

Orcs milled around him. They were busy tying chains, each smooth link as thick as their wrists, around the dragon's every available limb. They'd already succeeded in binding his wings close to his body. The appendages resembled a collapsed bundle of a kite against his side, folded and limp.

A yoke like that of an ox's was clamped behind the base of Serinar's skull. Two ropes led from both sides of the yoke and tied to the wall, keeping him in place.

Serinar himself remained still. His eyes were closed. The Demon Chain remained clasped on his neck. It glowed faintly.

“Keep it slow,” barked one Dragonmaw outside of Serinar's cage, his chunky arms crossed over his chest. It was Okrut, Serinar's rider. The red torch light revealed only the edges of his face. He was as muscled as the rest of them, but shorter and with a rounder face. “Kloth, tighten that tail clamp!”

Samia watched. By that point, the numbing effects of the drug were gone. She felt alert, though pain began to take numbness's place. She glanced down at her broken foreleg. The Dragonmaw had bound it and splinted it. The other stitched wounds remained stinging.

“The other one's awake,” said one orc. Samia looked up as just as Okrut glanced at her.

“Leave her. Let's take care of him first,” Okrut said, and turned away.

The Dragonmaw continued their work on binding Serinar.

_Escape_ ! Who knew when she might get a chance like this again? They might tranquilize her when they were done with the other dragon. 

Idly, Samia pulled her good claw back to test the strength of her shackles. The metal resisted admirably. She smelled it: reinforced iron with an outer layer of forged adamantite. These would be difficult to melt.

_Escape, escape_ . Samia eyed the orcs. But how could she escape? There were about eight or nine Dragonmaw. The moment she tried to jerk out of the chains – if she could, at all – they'd surge at her. And if she escaped, what of Vaxian and the others? She wouldn't leave them here – and Vaxian's wing was mangled. He wouldn't be able to fly off to safety.

The only option was to wait and listen. Plot. Plan. She had more than enough of such experience, like with the Wyrmcult, all those years ago.

It did not make the situation any less frustrating. If only she'd moved a bit quicker, drawn her sword earlier, Wrathion would have lost his head on the Aerie and they might have escaped that old pandaren's trap.

The clanks and clunks of the chains and bolts stopped. The orcs murmured. In this new silence, Samia could hear work beyond the stable, muffled through the dingy walls: distant shouts, tramping metal, grinding and digging of rock.

“Alright. Lets get this off,” Okrut said, drawing her attention back to Serinar.

The other Dragonmaw nodded and took to positions on each of Serinar's sides. They took a hold of loose chains, the others ends wrapped around various parts of the dragon's body: foreleg, back leg, wing, even horn. The orcs pulled back. The ropes went taut.

Okrut went into the open stall. He rounded around Serinar's head and took a hold of the Demon Chain – Samia had heard all about it when Wrathion had demanded that Warlord's opinion.

Okrut unclasped it. As he pulled away, the golden links rattling, the orcs stationed at Serinar's sides tensed, and the ropes they held grew tauter with the orcs' tightened grip.

Serinar opened his eyes.

The glow from the Demon Chain vanished. Now only the red glow of the torches lit the dark stable, where it reflected liquid-like red light on Serinar's onyx scales and on the black skin of the Dragonmaw's bare arms. It gave the dragon and his handlers a vague bloodied outline.

But Samia could see Serinar's eyes in that darkness. Red like the flame, he blinked them once, slowly. The vacant look began to slide away. Fresh realization sharpened his gaze.

His pupils dilated into slits. The dragon flared his nostrils.

“Steady!” Okrut ordered. “Hold him!”

Serinar snarled. The terrible sound made the whole of his chained body quiver until he began to thrash. The ropes and chains and yoke binding him held him fast, though the orcs growled their strain in keeping the bindings in check.

Still, Serinar continued to writhe. He was an enormous dragon, nearly as big as Sabellian, but less muscular and more angled. Where Sabellian was the ram, Serinar remained the talbuk, lean bodied.

Samia watched in silence. Even with his excessive mass, Serinar could not get away. The bindings were too great. She wondered as to why they didn't outright drug him as they had her and the others. Why go through such trouble if they had the means to subdue him? Were they trying to flaunt some sense of dominance, rather than take the easiest route?

_Whi-crack_ ! A whip, held by Okrut, came down and struck Serinar against his shoulder. The scales buffed out the first blow; when Okrut whipped again, the whip managed to strike underneath them, sending blood and looser scales flying. 

Serinar rumbled angrily. His eyes flashed, and he looked back at Okrut with undisguised hatred. His claws flexed and pulled against their bindings.

“Your choice, dragon! It is either this -”  _Crack_ !” “ - or the Chain!”

Serinar did not stop his thrashing. He grew more violent, a quaking mass of muscle bound in a small space. The orcs holding him snarled. Sweat, red in the torch-light, dripped down their faces.

The whip came down again and again. The iron-charcoal smell of dragon blood grew thick; the proto-drakes on the other side of the stable began to hiss at its scent and shift around uneasily.

It was only when Okrut raised up the Demon Chain when Serinar began to stall his frenzy. He locked his eyes on it while the blood leaked down his neck and side.

Finally, he stilled.

Okrut nodded to the other orcs, though he never took his eyes off of Serinar. The other Dragonmaw tied the ropes and chains they held to reinforced hooks on the wall of Serinar's enclosure and backed out. 

Okrut took a step back. He kept his grip on both Chain and whip as he closed the cage. Two Dragonmaw locked it, then set a metal bar as thick as their chests along the middle. Inside, Samia thought Serinar looked like a tied hog.

“Guard the doors,” Okrut said. The other Dragonmaw, still panting, saluted and left the stable. Okrut snorted at Serinar. The dragon glared at him in silence.

Then Okrut turned, walked down the aisle, and left. The heavy doors opened for just an instant, allowing golden light to illuminate the stable before the doors shut and left them again in red darkness.

Samia glanced at Serinar. The dragon had closed his eyes. His sides heaved. With the dim light, she could only just see the criss-cross of bloody markings from the whip. He hadn't lost many scales. Had the pain been that great? It seemed that the threat of the Chain had forced him into silence, not the whip.

Samia looked away. At least they were alone now. She closed her eyes to think. She remembered that the two orcs guarding them at the Black Market House had spoken of the Demon Chain – how they might use it on one of the other black dragons. Okrut had not turned to Samia. Would -?

“Out of all I could have guessed to live, you, Samia, would fall last on my list.”

Samia started. She glanced over at Serinar to find the massive dragon staring at her with a lidded gaze.

“Unless, of course, this is some new hallucination,” Serinar continued. “But I would think this too specific a vision, and one I doubt my mind would give me.” His voice remained strained, a hiss; the bindings around his maw forced him to speak with clipped motions.

It was like talking to a memory. Something from a past life. Samia stared at him. She had known Serinar decently; he'd even tried to court her, once, and briefly. Samia had found him too dull for her tastes. Even then, their acquaintance extended. Serinar had been in Sabellian's issue of command for some time. They'd seen battle together. To actually hear the dragon speak was more startling than seeing him.

Realizing she hadn't spoke, Samia said: “Do you have hallucinations often, then?”

“Ones that do not _often_ speak back,” Serinar said. He eyed her in silence; the red of his eyes reflected a cool intelligence, a far cry from the dullness the servitude from the chain had given him. “And how are you alive, then?”

The question was asked blankly and lacked curiosity.

“I should ask the same thing of you,” Samia said. “I thought -”

“The whelp?”

“Well. Yes.”

Serinar snorted. “You will speak first, for I asked first. I will speak after, and only then.”

Samia stifled her annoyance. “We were on Draenor. The -”

“Yes, I know that. You survived the breaking and those gronn creatures? How interesting. We thought you all had perished.”

“Clearly not,” Samia snapped.  _And none of you came to find out_ _if we lived_ , she thought.  _Not even the one that_ _left us there_ . 

She brushed such bitter memories aside. What had happened on Draenor had ultimately been to their benefit. Somewhat. “No one came to us during the Cataclysm, so we remained living in Blade's Edge,” Samia continued.

Serinar's curving fins twitched. The ribs of them splayed out like a hand stretching its fingers. “We? Do not tell me your broodparents still live.”

_Does my broodfather?_ “Sabellian is alive, but Kesia is dead,” Samia said, masking her hesitance. “A lot of us do – at least, from his brood.”

“I see. A shame about Kesia. I supposed we shouldn't have assumed -” He snorted. “It doesn't matter. Living or dead, your contribution to the Cataclysm would have not won the war.”

“Alright,” Samia said. She didn't want Serinar asking questions about why they didn't “contribute” to the Cataclysm on their own accord. “I told you how I'm alive. How are  _you_ alive?”

Serinar tilted his head, though the chains allowed minimal movement. “I just stayed where I was.”

“Dragonblight? You mean the place the Deathwing assaulted? And somehow you lived.”

“Stop the venom. I'm only telling you what happened. Now. Where was I? Ah, yes. Dragonblight. I had some business with our Dragonshrine, and remained there for some years after. When Deathwing returned, I did my fair share of battle.” He nodded to his tail. There was an indent into the flesh there, as if something had taken a chunk out of it. Scales and skin had since grown over the wound. “But the Assault on the temple quickly turned catastrophic for us when they charged the Dragon Soul. And so I simply... bowed out.”

“You fled, you mean.”

“I won't take insults from you,” Serinar grumbled. He gave her a grim look. “One who hid on Draenor.” He continued. “I confess, I did regret missing the rest of the slaughter up until Deathwing's death. Mortals are easy pickings when clumped together; a quick flame burst, and the whole group goes up in smoke.”

Samia grunted. Serinar was exactly as she had remembered him. He hadn't ever been clever. Smart, perhaps, but he'd used brute force rather than tactical planning, and Samia never remembered any sort of scheme he had done. He killed and maimed; that had been the extent of his talents.

“So? What then?”

“I went back to the Obsidian Dragonshrine and waited out the fighting. I am glad I made the choice I did. After Deathwing died, the rest of us were honed down and picked off in droves – at least, those that remained to fight a fight they'd already lost.”

“Those that managed to escape tried to hide. Thankfully, I'd put a ward in front of the Dragonshrine and blocked the entrance. One black dragon hiding there was enough. Why give myself away?” He shrugged – or at least tried to. Serinar winced as a chain shifted with his movement and pressed into his raw flesh from the whips. “Those that could not hide in time or picked stupid places were hunted down. I knew a purge was coming, so I stayed where I was; I knew, too, that others that had not been in the assault would be hiding. Nalice, for one.”

Ah – Nalice. Samia remembered her vividly. A cold but strangely funny dragon.

“When people came looking for me, I picked the most obvious place to hide in the Shrine: behind the bones. A quick leap into the lava and me pressing up against the skeletons hid my scent and look to all intruders.”

Samia stared at him. “That's it?”

“That's it. Remarkable, isn't it? Sometimes the simplest way is the best way.” Serinar's vague amusement disappeared. “I did the same when Wrathion's rogues came looking. I thought them regular bounty hunters at first – some had come, before – but they smelled like black dragon. Curious, but ignored it. Only later when I heard of Nalice's unfortunate demise by the same rogues did I learn of this 'Wrathion.'”

“I thought it was funny, the idea of a whelp sending assassins. But I didn't leave. If he'd killed Nalice, I wasn't going to be the idiot to think he would not be able to kill me. So I stayed and tried to wait it all out.” He snorted. “Did Wrathion truly believe he'd be able to find all of us? A whelp's honing senses are so dull in comparison.”

“And you somehow managed to end up here.”

Serinar huffed. “Yes, well. There's that part, too.” He glanced over towards the doors. “I had to  _eat_ , you see, so I  _did_ have to leave the Dragonshrine. The orcs must have seen me hunting – I don't know. All I  _know_ is that a handful of months ago when I crept from the Shrine, I was ambushed. And in such a cowardly way! They attacked with tranquilizers and those revolting proto-dragons.”

“So here I lay, whipped like a dog and controlled by that –  _Chain_ .” Serinar hissed. “It is hard to battle against its entrapment. Every command given, I must obey. This is the first time they have taken it off in two months. I'm almost thankful for your arrival; no doubt they plan to swap it to you or a sibling for the time being.”

Samia glared. “You haven't tried to escape?” She said, trying to change the subject.

“Of course not. I enjoy being a mere mount for mortals.” Serinar grunted. “I've  _tried_ . But these mortals are surprisingly bright when it comes to keeping us down. And then there is the command of the Chain. The whips are not so terrible, though I like to make them think it hurts more than it does. However, I dearly thank you for the multiple wounds you gave me.  _Those_ hurt. Stabbing me with a plank of wood?”

“You were trying to kill me!”

Serinar shrugged.

Samia snorted. It didn't surprise Samia that Serinar hadn't escaped. Why would he make a clever plan for the first time in his life? He'd probably just tried to fight his way out, the fool.

“But I think now, things will change,” Serinar said. “I know they will.”

“How, exactly?”

Serinar stared at her. He frowned. “Did they not tell you?”

“What? Who?”

Serinar began to narrow his eyes.

“Below us.”

“Serinar, if you're going to try to talk in riddles, at least make them semi-coherent.”

“I'm not talking in riddles!” Serinar tapped one paw on the ground. “The tide will soon turn in our favor. We'll hardly be  _mounts_ in a day or so. Didn't you hear it? How could you not?” His tone became accusatory. 

Suddenly, Samia realized what he was referring to: the voices. Serinar was no sane dragon. He had no idea that she hadn't heard anything in near-thirty years. She shifted uneasily as he continued to stare at her.

“I didn't hear anything,” Samia said, choosing her words carefully. “I  _don't_ hear anything. None of my family does.”

“That's impossible.”

“It isn't. The Old Gods can't reach over a span of light-years, believe it or not.”

Serinar rumbled. The chains wrapped around his belly shook. “You're a liar.”

“I'm not lying.”

Serinar snorted smoke. “You cannot simply escape Them, Samia. I recall you being smarter.”

“And I recall you minding your own business,” Samia threw back at him.

Serinar flexed his claws. His eyes grew a little unfocused. “But you are not on Outland, now. You should hear them here.”

“Well, I don't,” Samia said, growing uneasy. How long until her resistance fell away? She didn't want to think about it. The fact was, if she didn't get out of here swiftly and accomplish what she'd set out to do, she might as well succumb.

“Nothing?” Serinar said. He squinted, disbelieving. “How can you stand it?”

“Easily. I don't like being a servant, and you get used to the silence.”

Serinar's eyes flashed. It had almost been taboo with some Black Dragons to speak of being servants; they were simply too proud to admit it aloud. They thought the voices as a helpful consciousness, not a master. “I am no servant.”

“Come to Outland. Then you won't be.” She eyed his chains. “If you can stop being a  _mount_ for  _mortals_ , of course.”

Serinar growled and turned his head away from her, though the yoke stifled much movement. He glowered at the proto-drakes.

“What did they tell you?”

Silence.

“Serinar, what did you mean?”

Silence.

Samia huffed. “What, now you're not going to talk to me? You wouldn't stop talking, before.”

“I meant exactly what I said,” Serinar rumbled. “In a day or so, we will not be in chains. He told me.”

“What, is an Old God going to break us out of servitude? Doesn't that seem a bit ironic to you?”

“I am not a servant!” Serinar roared. The sound shuddered his chains. Samia set her fins down low to her neck as she watched Serinar's eyes grow fuzzy. “ _Y'shaarj ga zyqtahg iilth!_ _Ilith qi'uothk shn'ma yeh'glu Shath'Yar!_ ”

The doors of the stable opened. Serinar began to struggle in his binds again. Samia watched in silence, her heart in her throat. Black dragons hadn't often ranted in Faceless, the tongue of the Old Gods, and if they did, it was rare or a sign of a dragon who had given themselves fully to the masters. Even corrupted to evil, many, if not most, had had some sense of individuality. Serinar had never been one to rant and rave. Why was he now?

The Dragonmaw couldn't get Serinar under control. He no longer sprouted words but only snarled and growled, ferocious. Only when Okrut, running into the stable, gave the order for tranquilizers did Serinar grow silent and his head fall to the ground as the drug was stabbed into his fresher wounds.

Okrut glanced at her suspiciously.

“Guards, stay in here. Watch these two closely,” he ordered.

Samia hardly heard. As the Dragonmaw relocated, standing guard in front of their enclosures, she looked at Serinar. His uncharacteristic outburst had disturbed her.

What disturbed her further was that she understood what he'd said.

_The will of Y'shaarj corrupts you! You will drown in the blood of the Old Gods!_

\---

It was noon when Anduin received word that his father wished to speak with him.

He'd been taking lunch alone in his room when a servant had delivered the king's message. Anduin quickly finished his meal, a spicy course of noodles, dried fish, and fried rolls, and ran a brush through his hair before he exited the room, cane in hand. Melissa and Jonathan, his usual guards, attended him as he made his way down the third floor hallway to his father's suite.

Anduin had spent the better part of the last week accumulating as much information as he could about the situation in the Barrens and in Orgrimmar, as well as attending as many meetings that discussed plans against Garrosh's Horde as his health permitted. His leg had proven ever the obstacle, and under his father's hawk like gaze, any expression of discomfort on Anduin's part had Varian sending him down to rest, despite Anduin's protests.

Thus Anduin was pleasantly surprised at Varian's outright summoning. He finally made his way to the end of the hallway. His father's door had an engraving of Xuen on the frame, lovingly crafted in blues and silvers. Anduin smiled at the royal guards standing watch over the door, and they allowed him inside.

Varian's suite was larger than Anduin's own by perhaps half. As king, Varian had been given the biggest room in the entire Shrine. Varian had protested the idea – even this long as king, he remained uncomfortable with pushed propriety and splendor on his part – but the pandaren had insisted.

Anduin glanced around, noting the unmade queen bed, the flurry of parchment on the desk and its chair, and the flung change of dinner clothes heaped near the over-sized dresser at the side of the room. It _was_ a big room for only one man – though the man was rather big himself.

Directly in front of Anduin, the double-doors to the outside balcony were open. The warm, sweet breeze flooded into the room. Varian Wrynn himself stood hunched over the bannister of the spacious balcony outside, his back to Anduin and the guards.

Anduin walked over to stand at the edge where the room met the balcony.

“You asked for me, Father?”

Varian immediately straightened and glanced back. He nodded at his son. He usually saved his rare smiles for Anduin, but his face remained grim, his eyes hard and his lips in a thin line. It was all Anduin needed to see for him to realize this would be no pleasant meeting.

“Anduin. Join me up here.” Varian raised his eyes, stern blue, to Jonathan and Melissa and nodded. They bowed and exited the balcony, and closed the doors behind them.

Anduin walked up to stand by his father's side.

Below sprawled the Vale. Though he had seen it many times, Anduin caught his breath at the beauty. With the sun high, the light hit every rolling hill, golden grass, lake and blooming tree. The Shrine of Two Moons, far to the north, and Mogu'shan Palace glinted in the light. It was as if the Vale had been shined like a fine piece of jewelry.

All, save, for the pit. Anduin looked to the left and set his lips in a thin line. Where the rest of the Vale hosted its shine and grandeur, the pit remained a black and brown tarnish. It had grown since Anduin had snuck down to investigate; more goblin and orcish machines had arrived by way of proto-drake and kodo. The cliff-face that had once been below the lake, now drained, had become black in coloration – or had been overtaken by some sort of build-up, which looked thickest around the entrance of the mine.

Even from this high up, Anduin could see orcs and goblins milling down in the dig. Where they walked, plumes of dark dust wafted; the effect was like that of a smog centered around the dig. Proto-drakes, chained, lined the upper levels of the pit for what Anduin assumed was for further guard, and spiked walls had been placed around the rim in front of the beasts. The hastily-built buildings to host the barracks and what looked to be a stables for the work animals were coated with dirt, though the two or three orcish war machines placed near the entrance of the mine were polished.

A sour feeling curled in his gut. Anduin looked to the right at the Golden Lotus pagoda in-between the great Mogu statues. Shaded by the gargantuan polearms high above, the pagoda was out of the warm sun and did not reflect its golden light.

Golden Lotus and Shado-pan alike prepared there. The distinction was easily recognized: where the Lotus wore shades of gold and white, so like the Vale they protected, the Shado-pan's black armor and hidden faces stuck out among the crowd. Anduin noticed most of the defenders _were_ Shado-pan. 

Anduin had a sinking suspicion why. When he had spent time with the Golden Lotus before the whole force of the Alliance had arrived in Pandaria, he'd learned much of how the organization worked. Their methods were strong – strong enough to push back the Mogu invasion – but they were guardians first, and fighters second. The Shado-pan had more of a militaristic approach in comparison. Considering the militarism shown in Garrosh's dig, the Shado-pan's fierce fighting tactics and careful discipline were needed more than the Golden Lotus's guardianship.

Anduin had been horrified enough when the Mogu had invaded the Vale. They'd pushed them back, but at some amount of cost and destruction. Fighting in the Vale – it didn't seem right. He'd thought the worst was over. How could he have imagined that Garrosh would turn his sights to the Vale after the Divine Bell?

And how much more destruction would Garrosh cause?

“Garrosh arrived earlier today,” Varian said. The king's voice was strained and low, a near-growl.

Anduin started. If Garrosh himself had arrived – it was only a matter of time before fighting began. “Do you know what he's planning to do?”

“No.” Varian stood up straighter, though he remained gripping the balcony.

Silence. Anduin shifted. He was thankful his leg hadn't acted up – yet – today. “Father. Why did you ask me to find you?”

“I want your advice, son,” Varian said as he glared down at the dig, like his very gaze might uproot the offending place. “You spent time with the Golden Lotus here. You know this place and this culture.” Varian looked at Anduin, his thick eyebrows creased together. “You gave me your advice when the Horde invaded Chi-Ji's temple. How can I -” He huffed and then growled. “- help without causing too much damage?”

Anduin bit the inside of his cheek. He looked away and at the dig again. It drew the eye; he could not help himself but to keep looking at it. “Honestly,” he began, “I'm not sure, Father. The Shado-pan are here. I don't think we can really avoid fighting.”

Varian nodded in an impatient jerk of his head. He was not often so agitated when directly talking to Anduin. “I know. I just -” He sighed and stood up straighter. “I know, Anduin,” he repeated in a calmer voice. “I've sent for back up from Lion's Landing, but we don't have enough. Moving the whole force would take days. By then, Garrosh would have already made his move.” Varian sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a great huff as he glared down at the dig site. “I would have moved them far before now, but if I rushed in too soon -”

“Garrosh would react badly,” Anduin supplied. “He'd take it as a challenge.”

Varian gave his son a grim but appreciative look at Anduin's understanding. “And now it's too late. Anduin, if I send our troops stationed here to the pit, they'll be massacred. If they get close, the Dragonmaw will pluck them from the ground. The survivors would be rammed with war machines and worgs.” He cursed under his breath. “I was an idiot to stall. Garrosh has made himself a defending line – and I still don't know what they've found down there.”

Again, Anduin found himself looking to the pit. “Damned if you did, damned if you didn't, I guess,” he said, mirroring his father's grim tone. Fighting _was_ inevitable. “I don't know, Father. I... I think if we kept them close to the dig, we could avoid further loss?”

Varian said nothing. Anduin shifted. It seemed the most obvious answer to him; surely Varian had thought of it?

“I think it's better that you didn't rush in, at least,” Anduin added quickly as he looked back to his father and saw Varian's dull look. “More people might have died.”

Varian grunted. He let go of the bannister. “But I've given Garrosh more time.”

“But the Golden Lotus and Shado-pan are here in full force, now.” He paused, then brightened. “If we gave soldiers to them, we can turn away Garrosh easily.”

Varian locked his jaw. He looked at the pagoda from the corner of his eye. “I've considered that. I think it's the only thing that makes sense. Even still, we've even gotten reports that they have black dragons, now, damnit -”

“What?” Anduin started. “Black dragons?”

Varian only threw up a hand in exasperation as reply. The king was still sour over Sabellian, and Anduin wondered if Varian regretted not killing the dragon now that the medics had announced that Anduin's leg was set back months in its recovery thanks to the Sabellian's work.

Anduin shook the thought from his mind.

Heartened, at least, about the pandaren forces, he continued. “I don't think that the Shado-pan and Golden Lotus want Garrosh to bring up – whatever they've found down there. I'm positive that with _our_ added strength, we can stop him before he does.”

Varian rubbed at his chin. He regarded the Lotus' pagoda in silence. “I know.” He sighed, and it sounded like the whole of the world's exhaustion exhaled through him.

Anduin frowned. Varian _had_ thought about this option before. He should have already gone ahead and sounded the orders. Anduin's “advice” was a mere echo of what Varian had been thinking. Did the king simply need the reassurance? “Father?”

“I don't want something else like the Divine Bell from happening,” Varian admitted, avoiding his son's look. “Garrosh is trying to find anything that can make him stronger. Our scouts couldn't even get close to that light-forsaken dig without dropping in sickness. If it's worse than the Bell...”

Anduin set his lips in a thin line as he recalled the assault of feeling he'd had at the dig. Such negativity... gripping, poisonous. He knew in his heart that, whatever was down there, _was_ worse than the Divine Bell. The Bell had to be activated; this... this was something loose, something already actively dangerous.

But he wouldn't tell his Father that. He saw, now, why the king hesitated. Maybe even Varian knew it would be a worse situation at the dig in comparison to the thing that had almost crushed Anduin's life.

“If it is, we can handle it.”

Varian looked at him. He smiled, though it was a small, meager thing on his face. “So we will,” he said. “Thank you, Anduin.”

Anduin didn't think he'd done very much, but he nodded anyway. The grimness on his father's face from before had gone; he looked more resolved.

“I'll send word to Tyrande and Moira and send out the orders,” Varian continued. He turned away from the Vale with an air of finality. He smiled at Anduin. “Come on.”

Anduin relaxed. They could do this. As long as they contained Garrosh's Horde to the dig, no further harm to the Vale could be done.


	32. Chapter 32

_Four days ago_

Things had happened too fast, and then happened all at once.

Rexxar had seen Pyria safely get into the Auction House. Afterward, he had waited with the nether-drakes near the rise to the caves. It had been a short wait, but a tense one. The drakes kept sparking off with nether energy. Ozaku, the big warrior, kept insisting they charge in.

Then Vaxian had arrived.

Telkazu the Onyx had been the first to see the massive dragon sail in from the mountains. The nether-drake had only a moment to point of the dragon before Vaxian, his group of nether-drakes flying behind him, had descended upon the Auction House and set it aflame.

In the single instant, the plan was gone. Pyria and the others were still in the Auction House, but with Vaxian's appearance, the odds had evened.

Ozaku got his charge.

“Go,” Rexxar snarled, and the nether-drakes needed no other prompting.

Putting aside his earlier wariness, the half-orc lifted from his hiding place and charged into battle.

The nether-drakes shifted into their true forms and bound beside him and then past him, hides flashing by in blue and black and green, so bright their shining bodies looked as if they were made of the rawest, purest colors.

Dragonmaw fled the inside of the Auction House. Others from the side, near the chained proto-drakes both dominated and the new ones bought, came around the front to see Vaxian sail in for another barrage of flame.

The orcs did not see the nether-drakes until the drakes outran Rexxar and leaped into the nearest group of Dragonmaw, teeth flashing in anger.

Vaxian and the group of drakes swooped above them and banked suddenly to the side. A quick glance, and Rexxar saw they were headed toward where other Dragonmaw were quickly mounting on their proto-drakes.

Chaos. Rexxar joined the fray, Leokk at his side. The wyvern leaped on one of the orcs and began to maul the orc from the back. Rexxar smashed the butt of his axe into another Dragonmaw, who'd been about to skewer Shellak's side.

Some of the orcs noticed him, but most were focused on getting the proto-drakes at the side of the Auction House ready for flight. They stared dumbly at him. Did they recognize him? Rexxar didn't care. He cut some of them down to give the drakes breathing room.

“We must open a line for Samia and the others to escape,” Rexxar said to Telkazu. The drake nodded.

“Provided they escape the fire,” she said, then leaped off to attack another orc.

A flurry of scales to the left. Rexxar looked over. The mounted proto-drakes rose into the air – and then he saw them. Samia and the others had appeared at the side of the Auction House. They must have charged through the wall.

But Samia and the others did not make a beeline to escape. Instead they rose and began to attack the proto-drakes above.

_Vaxian is too engaged_ , Rexxar realized. He looked up to see the large black dragon battling the equally as enormous red proto-drake Rexxar had seen before. Vaxian could not easily escape, not yet. They would have to get them all out and away, and disable the proto-drakes that could catch up to them.

Rexxar looked to the side of the Auction House. The black proto-drakes that the Dragonmaw had purchased remained. They strained against their bonds, cried and gurgled at the fighting. Only one orc remained guarding them, and even this was a youth, frenzy-eyed as he watched the battle.

Rexxar had an idea, looking at them. A distraction.

Rexxar charged toward them. Leokk began to lope at his side, but Rexxar waved him away.

“Go, Leokk,” Rexxar said. He didn't want to risk his companion in this new gambit.

Leokk grumbled. But he was not as willful or stubborn as Misha, and with a bunching of muscles he jumped up and spun away into the rising smoke.

Leokk gone, Rexxar raised his axes to his sides, a defense to replace the wyvern's protection. It was a paltry comparison. It would have to do.

The youth looked up as Rexxar approached. He gawked and gave him a once-over with wide eyes.

“Go, boy,” Rexxar said. “I do not want to have to make you.”

The young orc raised his weapon, a slim polearm. He brandished it as one would a long stick and waved it at Rexxar in the same manner.

And then above came a horrible wailing, so full of innate and primal pain Rexxar felt as it forced his attention. He looked up. Aerial combat had stilled to one smoky pinpoint high above the Auction House: both Samia and Vaxian had converged upon the big red proto-drake and were trying to rip it to pieces.

Rexxar turned away. The boy had stared too, and remained staring. Rexxar grabbed a hold of him by his mail tunic and threw him off to the side. The youth landed, grimaced, and at Rexxar's looming form above, went pale and fled.

Immediately, Rexxar turned his attention to the drakes. They continued to pull against their bindings. Rexxar looked at the chains. They'd been bound to thick spikes wedged into the earth and locked with a clamping mechanism the size of his chest; these chains circled both their feet and neck. But the chains were taut as the drakes pulled back on them in their frenzy. Rexxar held aloft his right axe and crashed it down on where the chains met the lock.

Sparks flew at the metallic impact. He struck again and again and again. Each blow grew more difficult than the last as the edge of his axe dulled, buffed against the chain.

The drakes paid him no mind and he was on the other side of the Auction House, away from the sight of the orcs. The smoke from the Auction House fires grew so thick that soon Rexxar felt as if he had plunged into a choking stormcloud, and he coughed as the smoke filled his lungs. Sweat beaded his skin. _Clank. Bang. Clank. Bang_. 

And then finally the links fell apart in a sliding hiss. The proto-drake was not aware of its freedom until it made another one of its jerks forward and stumbled away.

Ignoring it, Rexxar began to work on the second drake. The heat was bad now, searing against his skin.  _Clank. Bang. Clank. Bang_ . The freed proto-drake paced in front of him, chattering, hunched over. Rexxar grunted quietly to himself, forgoing a curse. Once he freed this second one, he hoped the beasts' freedom might distract the orcs. Then the black dragons and the nether-drakes might be able to escape.

The second chain split. The proto-drake shrieked and thundered away, dragging chains behind it in a clamor of metal. It rounded around the side of the Auction House.

Rexxar froze. He meant to use the drakes as a distraction, not as some sort of sacrifice. He didn't want them to be _harmed_. He assumed they would have flown up and away.

But the drake came back, shrieking, bounding up and down like a bouncing bird. Its mate had not followed it, and upon seeing the disappeared drake return, it roared and raised its wings. Rexxar relaxed as it flapped once, then twice, and took off into the air; the beat of its thick wings set the black-grey smoke to swirling about it like the currents of water.

The second proto-drake joined it in the sky.

Shouts of alarm raised from the other side of the Auction House near the Tavern. Rexxar gripped his axes. They were dulled from breaking apart the chains but they could still kill.

Five orcs rounded the side of the Auction House. One held a large, thick pike which glistened wet in the reflections of the flames. They had their eyes set on the escaped drakes, and the pike-master began to aim her tranquilizer.

One of the orcs noticed Rexxar standing there among the ruins of the chains. He gawked and shoved the Dragonmaw at his right. Soon they were all staring at him as if he was some specter, emerged from the smoke.

The pike-master recovered first. She scoffed and began to aim again – the proto-drakes were high in the air but not high enough to escape a shot – and Rexxar charged. He'd hoped the escaped proto-drakes would make more of a distraction than the attention of five orcs. But how many orcs were there? A dozen? Perhaps he should join the fray again, and bring the orcs' attention elsewhere if he could.

A cheer rang up at the main area of battle, and Rexxar saw a black dragon sail into view for only a moment before it disappeared into another layer of smoke, Samia in its claws. It wasn't anyone he knew from the group.

He had no time to think about it. If more reinforcements had arrived, then he would have to make up some new plan. At his charge, the group of Dragonmaw stumbled back save the pike-master. They quickly came to their senses and charged back at him, though as they came close Rexxar saw their wide and confused eyes at his countenance. They recognized him.

He clashed his axes into the single axe of the first orc and shoved him out of the way, then turned and punched the hilt of an axe into another's chest. The two stumbled away. Rexxar began to more closely engage the third when a red shadow passed over him. He glanced up as he cut through the shoulder of the orc he fought: it was the red proto-drake Samia and Vaxian had tried to kill in the air. Entire swathes of scale were missing from its thick hide and loose flesh undulated like cloth in the air. It landed.

“Fools! Get the drakes!” The Red's rider screamed. The orc hopped off of the proto-drake and hoisted a long, wicked black polearm from a strap at her back. Her red eyes were wide and wet with anger until she noticed Rexxar. She paused.

The Dragonmaw that Rexxar had attacked suddenly drew back. Whether it was Zaela's noticing of Rexxar or her screamed command, Rexxar had no idea.

“What is this?” Zaela looked Rexxar up and down and squinted. She yelled, but only because it would be hard to hear her over the roaring of the battling dragons on the other side of the Veiled Stair. “Rexxar, the Beasmaster? Hah!”

“Warlord Zaela.” Rexxar tightened his grip on the axes. “I had hoped not to see your clan again.”

Zaela hesitated. Then she stalked closer to him, her polearm tight in her hand. She watched him with a curious, hungry glint, predatory in both her look and stance.

“I thought you were dead,” she said.

“So did many others.”

Zaela stopped in front of him. The Dragonmaw Rexxar had been fighting lingered to the side, frozen, watching their warlord and the beastmaster.

Zaela glanced at where the proto-drakes had been chained. She smiled, an ugly twisting on her face, then looked back at Rexxar.

“You're not helping us.”

Rexxar grunted. He felt the static between them, a fine line ready to snap. The energy before battle.

“I would not help orcs like you,” he said, and Zaela's eyes grew dark and angry.

“You dare insult the Dragonmaw?”

“I would dare do more than insult, Warlord.”

Zaela growled. “A Horde hero, threatening the Horde itself?”

“You are not the Horde,” Rexxar said. He gestured to the sky, where one of the dominated proto-drakes flew. “The Horde I helped would not fall to _this_.”

Zaela snarled. Suddenly she rushed him, polearm raised, and Rexxar was ready. He met her attack with his axes, and blocked the vicious strike of the Warlord. They spun away from each other.

The battle began.

Zaela and he circled. Above, the dragons screamed. The flames eating the Auction House scorched the wind so fiercely the churned breeze scalded at his skin.

“You helped make the Horde,” Zaela shouted. Her hoarse voice remained difficult to hear over the rumbling of battle. “You were there at the founding of Orgrimmar! We fight for the same thing!”

Rexxar snarled and charged. He swung his axe. Zaela ducked, and the edge of his weapon sliced above her head with a high whistle of air.

“We don't want the same thing,” Rexxar growled. He brought up his second axe to block Zaela as she swung her pike at him. The burst of metal against metal sent sparks alighting between them. “I was a part of a Horde that wanted nothing but domination, once – and I will not let the Horde I left behind become that again, with beasts like you as leaders.” He swung at her. She twirled away. 

Zaela snarled. She jerked her pike away and swung again at him. He blocked it. Again and again they traded blows, so strongly swung each block sent his arms to shuddering.

“Beasts like me. Hah!” Zaela nicked him at the shoulder with the tip of her pike. “I am an orc. I  _control_ those beasts. You think domination is to be sneered at? Turned away from? What is an orc without smoothing to fight? Something to rule? Something to  _conquer!?”_ The longer she spoke the more snarled and slurred and loud her voice became; Zaela's eyes grew wide and feral, and her movements jerky, frenzied. She landed a second and deeper blow at his thigh, and the pain was a sharp hiss. 

Rexxar backed up. He raised his axes into a defensive cross and blinked the sweat out of his eyes.

“No – I see nothing has changed when I left you all behind,” Rexxar said. “Focused on war and conquest. Waste.”

Zaela charged him. Their weapons clanged against one another, again and again. “You would know nothing of it,” Zaela snarled at him. “ _Half-blood!_ Pah. No wonder you turned away from what your heritage offers you!”

“If my ogre's blood gives me reason, then all the better for it.”

Rexxar swung. In her frenzy Zaela had become clumsy, and the weapon slashed against her shoulder. It split the tough leather and left a line of deep, welling red in its wake. The Dragonmaw Warlord growled.

Behind her, the Auction House shook. Rexxar had caught a glimpse of pairs of wings flailing, red upon orange. Zaela took a cursory glance over her shoulder before she again pursued Rexxar in their deadly struggle.

Around them, the Dragonmaw that had come before Zalea watched. Rexxar felt as if he was in a gladiator ring. The fire had gone out but the air was still hot. His leather harness was sticky with sweat and his wolf mask stuck to his face.

He did not know how long they were fighting when Zaela spoke again. Long enough for his whole body to ache. He had not fought this fiercely in years.

“You lack bite without your beasts,” Zaela said. “Where are they? You abandoned the _Horde_ for a pack of animals. I would think they would be with you, too. Or did you abandon them as well?”

Rexxar growled. He charged forward and his axes came close to cutting Zaela's head off – but she ducked, and the edges of his weapons sliced a bundle of her tied hair off instead.

Zaela looked behind his shoulder and jerked her head in a sort of half-nod.

Only too late to Rexxar feel the weighty shift of air behind him, a great presence of something looming high above.

A massive head descended on him. Pain exploded through his unarmored shoulder as Zaela's red proto-drake caught him in its grip, shovel-like maw digging bloody grooves into his flesh. Rexxar gasped. His knees buckled but he dare not fall or twist away. The drake had enough force and more to pull his arm clean off it it wished. A dull snap sounded from within his torso as the Red increased the pressure of its massive bite and broke his collarbone in two.

A pinpoint of pressure and then pain poked at his throat. Rexxar refocused. In his dazed and sudden pain he'd dropped one of his axes and lost sight of the field of battle. He looked up - when had he begun to kneel? - to see Zaela had put the point of her polearm at his throat.

The smoke of the Auction House bloomed behind her, a slow gushing of black curtain. The breath of the proto-drake blew hot and stinking at the side of Rexxar's face. Its beady yellow eye on the side facing Rexxar stared not at him but at its frowning master.

“But I have  _my_ beasts,” Zaela said, a guttural threat that was given too late. “Behold the products of domination and conquest, the birthright of the orcs.” She looked away from him to gaze at Galakras: not with fondness but a voracious, devouring gaze, and the hunger for power in them disturbed Rexxar beyond his pained dimness.

Zaela looked back at him. The dragons remained screaming and fighting on the other side of the Auction House. The ground shook below Rexxar's feet in a curious ripple of unnatural movement.

“I'm disappointed,” she said. “A hero of the Horde... pah. A relic! A wash-up. You may have created in the Horde, but you obviously have  _no place_ in what it's become.” The tip of her polearm sunk deeper into his skin until it broke through and a bead of warm blood trailed down the curve of his throat. Zaela stopped. “Half-blood filth.”

“But I won't kill you,” Zaela said. The Dragonmaw around them relaxed, though some growled in contest until the Warlord silenced them with a glare. “Because you did help the Horde – once. For that, I'll spare you.”

“I do not need mercy from _you,”_ Rexxar said, and his voice was a growl, one fueled by pain and anger.

Zaela snorted. She looked away from him, up at the waiting drake. “One favor,” she said. “For the Horde.”

“Galakras!” Zaela raised her arm in a point and waved her hand.

The proto-drake – as if Rexxar were some doll, some toy – raised the beastmaster into the air and flung him over the side of the cliffs.

\---

Rexxar woke to a warmth breath on his cheek.

He blinked. He lay on his back, and the whole of the sky stretched before him, glossy blue-black and lit by countless stars.

How much time had passed? Rexxar closed his eyes and heaved himself up so he could sit; his back ached as he moved. He could feel the bruises there without looking at it, warm and swelling even now.

That pain was nothing to the sharp heat on his left shoulder. Once he'd sat up, he looked at the wound. Rexxar did not wear a shoulder-plate there, unlike on his right, and so Galakras had bit straight through the flesh and snapped his collarbone. The proto-drake's mighty grip had left bloody tears and puncture-wounds all across his shoulder, and these bled even still, though in small leaking rivulets. The light tan of his flesh had disappeared beyond the layer of blackish, dried blood, and the break of his collarbone popped up like a cracked piece of wood.

He was at least thankful the bone had not broken the skin, but he would have to set it soon.

A grunt to his right. Rexxar looked over and smiled, though even the vague gesture left his bruised face feeling worn.

“Thank you for waking me, Misha.”

The bear sat lay at his side, but she was so large that even laying down as she was, her head was level with Rexxar's sitting down. The beastmaster placed a bloody hand on the bear's head and scratched at her ear.

Behind her paced Leokk. The wyvern was agitated, barbed tail twitching back and forth, head hunched and swaying.

Misha grunted again. Rexxar dropped his hand and scrunched his eyes closed. He had landed on a larger outcrop of the cliff-face that led up to the Veiled Stair. It had saved him from falling farther and breaking his back upon the level Valley of the Four Winds a yard or so below.

He sat up a bit more and leaned back against the rock wall behind him, the stones cool on his bare, hot skin – too hot. Rexxar rubbed at the bridge of his nose with forefinger and thumb. He could not well catch some infection now.

The silence of the cliff and the mountain above told him everything. He opened his eyes and looked out at the dark Valley stretched before him, the rolling, dark green plains so far they melted into the black horizon, as if endless in their stretch.

The Dragonmaw were gone, presumably with Samia and Vaxian and the others in tow. Had the black dragons gotten away, they would have found him.

Rexxar glared at the Valley. Misha watched him in silence; Leokk stopped pacing.

“Fool,” he muttered. He should have done more. He was rusty at this. Too unpracticed. Too much time spent alone with his beasts. Rexxar sighed, and relaxed. His right hand uncurled from its tight fist. He hadn't realized he had tensed so badly.

The odds had been too great, he knew. Simple logic told him that. They'd simply been too outnumbered, and the appearance of the black dragon, the stranger, had tipped the odds. Even still, it tore at him in a pain as great as his wounds.

He looked at Misha and blinked. The bear stared at him.

“You are back,” Rexxar said with a start, and saw Misha as if for the first time. “Misha! What did you find?”

Bitterness at his failure grew overwhelmed by an anxiousness in his stomach. Misha flicked an ear.

“Is the Baron dead?”

Misha shook her great head back and forth.

Rexxar breathed out hard. The sourness of his gut lifted. “Where is he? In the Mountains?”

Misha stood. She jerked her head to the Valley. Rexxar frowned. It was not where the Agent had said Sabellian had been – at least, off to the south. He glanced at Misha but trusted her. She had never been wrong in her hunts.

But what now?

Rexxar was alone, save for his beasts. That was not cause for concern, usually, but if he tracked down Samia and the others, could he help them with the limited strength he had? In all of his grand adventures, he had had help: Thrall, Vol'jin, even Chen Stormstout, the pandaren, among others.

No. This failure had shown him he could not do that alone. Rexxar's frown deepened. Had they all been captured? If not, perhaps he could track some of them down...

No, even then, they would not be able to. They had tried to. They had failed. They'd need more strength. A Son of Deathwing would be enough.

The choice grew obvious. Grimacing, he stood. Misha got to her feet. Rexxar placed a hand on his collarbone and with a push, snapped the bone back in place. The pain had him snarling, but he silenced himself.

“Lead us to the Baron,” Rexxar said. “We will go as quickly as we can.”

\---

_Present-day_

The council room was stiff and quiet.

Anduin stood at the large table in the middle of the room. Before it, the usual map of Pandaria had been replaced by a map of the Vale, intricately detailed. Even Anduin didn't recognize some of the smaller landmarks noted in the scrawled lettering on the map, like the small mound near Mistfall Village simply noted “haunted.”

Around the table stood others of the Alliance. His father stood at the front of the table, arms crossed over his chest, head down, eyes intent on the map. Behind him, against the walls, was a line of five Stormwind guards, two of which were Anduin's usual guards, Jonathan and Melissa.

On either side of the table were Tyrande and Moira. The two women were the only Alliance leaders – besides Varian – who were readily available at the Vale. Jaina had gone to the Barrens soon after her arrival, and the others, too, were otherwise engaged with the revolution. The last report that had come in – just hours ago – had noted Vol'jin's revolutionaries, and the Alliance forces aiding them, had accumulated enough resources to begin a readied assault on Orgrimmar, which in itself was shoving out more and more of the Horde that weren't orcs everyday, and building up defensive turrets, lines, and Kor'kron.

But this meeting had not been called to discuss the siege. It'd been called to discuss the Vale.

“An' when is this Shado-pan supposed ta show up?” asked Moira. Behind her, a small entourage of Dark Iron Dwarves stood at the ready, flanked in a loose triangular formation. She and Anduin hadn't looked at one another since she'd arrived from her top chambers. Anduin knew that Moira and her father had come to terms with what had happened in Ironforge, but she and Anduin... not so. Anduin hoped to possibly mend their awkward relationship with one another after this business with the Vale, and Garrosh, was done.

Varian shrugged. He did not look up from the map. “Soon,” he said. He glanced up then, to eye Moira and Tyrande. “We can't continue to pause this for him. Tyrande, what were you saying?”

The meeting had begun some half hour ago. Or an hour ago. Anduin couldn't tell how much time had passed. Varian had called it immediately after Anduin and he had spoken up in the king's room. They'd been discussing strategies for protecting the Vale while waiting for the pandaren representative, Sun, to arrive. She wasn't actually a Shado-pan, but a Golden Lotus. Anduin had gotten to know her well after his time in the Vale.

The plan so far was flimsy. Anduin knew that much. Each time Tyrande, Moira, or Varian suggested something, one of the other leaders would interject and point out some flaw. Not enough soldiers. Not enough time. The Kor'kron had too many defensive weapons.

“We can send the Sentinels down in a Cenarion flank,” Tyrande said. The Night Elf leader hadn't spoken much, compared to Varian and Moira. She'd remained pensive, quiet, but intent, glowing eyes sharp with attention. Behind her, two night elf rangers stood. “It is a luring technique,” she said, seeing Varian and Moira's blank expressions. “Their nightsabers can draw off the worg, and the hippogryphs can pull back the Dragonmaw. I cannot easily explain without showing you.”

Moira grunted. “Draw 'em off, and then what? We surge down into tha' dig?I thought yer Sentinels dropped when they got too close.”

Tyrande stared at the dwarf. “Yes.”

“With the sickness,” Varian muttered. He glanced at Anduin, frowned, then looked back at the map. Anduin didn't know what to make of the look.

“I think it's got something to do with the Sha,” Anduin said. Like Tyrande, he hadn't said much. He didn't know enough about battle tactics to really give anything of use. “What's there at the dig, I mean. It's the only thing that makes sense.” That, and he'd felt what the dig had given off when he'd snuck down there. What else could it be?

Moira snorted. “I wouldn't be surprised. Everythin' seems to be about this Sha here.”

“It is too strong,” Tyrande murmured. “It is like nothing my night elves had seen before, and many had seen the Sha of Anger in Kun-lai.” She nodded at Moira. “You are right, though I do not like to admit it. We will have to battle both the Kor'kron and this... sickness at the dig.”

“Whatever it is, it isn't good for us,” Varian said. “And I can only imagine what Garrosh wants with – whatever it is. If it's some sort of weapon like last time... he's been taking enough to fortify Orgrimmar, damnit. Some super-weapon won't surprise me!”

Anduin had heard all about Garrosh's growing collection. Reports of a scorpion the size of a zeppelin, a feral devilsaur, and boxes upon boxes of unearthed artifacts had come in last night, too.

Varian looked back at the map. He began to nod to himself. “What if we let him take this weapon out?”

“Out of the dig?” Anduin asked. Varian nodded. Moira shook her head.

“An' then what? Let him drag it to Orgrimmar? If it's as bad as we think it is, why should we let him get it out in the first place? It could spread and fester, fer all we know!”

“But if he takes it out, he will be in the open,” Tyrande said. “We do not know how deep in this find is, and my sentinels could not get far inside to see. If he were to take it out -”

“We could strike him without worrying about the concentration – the build-up – of the dig,” Varian said. They all begin to speak with less wariness and more strength, like a growing realization in their voices alone.

Tyrande nodded. She looked at the map, then pointed at the center of the plains, to the south of the Mogu guardian statues. “The Shado-pan are collected here. Let us say we do allow Garrosh to bring up his find.” She moved her finger to the dig, which had been recently added via dark ink. Anduin could still see the wisps of the illustrated pool that had once been where the dig was, now underneath the newer ink.

Slowly, Tyrande trailed her finger from the dig to the center. “We allow Garrosh here. The Shado-pan can set up a defensive line near this pagoda.” She tapped the Golden Lotus structure, set underneath the statues. “Our forces can come in from the south.” She trailed her finger now from the Shrine, up to the southern edges of the plains, a bit in front of the Mogu'shan Palace. “That will leave the east and the west open. There is not enough time to ask the Horde for assistance, if they would even give any.” The Night Elf frowned, a sour look, but she soon recovered herself. “I can order the Sentinels to these areas with the Cenarion flank. It will be less numbers there, loosely strung, but their mounts and tactics will make up for the loss.”

Silence. Tyrande looked up. Anduin remained staring at the map. So did Moira and Varian.

The plan made sense. Anduin was a bit uncomfortable with letting Garrosh take the find out, but what other choice did they have? The dig was far too protected to hurl themselves against, and even if their forces did manage to maneuver through the gate of weapons, worg, and proto-drakes, they still had to struggle through the tunnels, sick with the black taint – and that hadn't worked with the scouts Tyrande had sent.

“What if he takes it out, then portals off with it?” Anduin asked.

“No. He will not do that,” Tyrande said. She looked at him. Her eyes were ageless; Anduin had trouble looking at her directly. “I think you, out of all of us, know that Garrosh is one to flaunt his findings, Prince Anduin. He will make a spectacle of this – not run away with it.”

Anduin nodded.

“Then we should stop him from making a spectacle in the first place,” Varian grunted. He straightened, and his hands fell to his sides. “There's a host of Stormwind gryphon riders above. I can send them with your hippogryphs, Tyrande -”

A rush of footsteps from the entrance hall interrupted the king. Everyone looked up as a human ran around the curve of the hall and into sight: a scout, dressed in loose Stormwind leathers. He skidded to a halt at the entrance, gave a hasty salute, then blurted:

“Garrosh has gone into the dig.”

Anduin went cold.

The scout wobbled, then set his hands on his knees. His red hair was slick with sweat. “Shado-pan have engaged. Your Majesty,” he hastily added, then slumped against the archway.

The room grew still. Then Varian slammed his hand down on the table and exploded: “ _What_?”

“The Sentinels -” the scout gasped for air. “Have gone down into a defensive line. Worg riders. Dragonmaw protecting the dig. Champions – not enough, everyone is at the Barrens. There's too many Kor'kron...”

Varian cursed. He pushed away from the table, and as he opened his mouth, Tyrande interrupted him. “I will direct the Sentinels,” she said in a clipped voice. Her face was a smooth mask, collected, calm, and without further instruction, the Night Elf swept from the room, the two rangers hurrying behind her.

Tyrande's quick action and exit seemed to energize the room. The shock of the news grew now into a static, and everyone fidgeted, hands going to weapons at belts or eyes glancing at the door of the room.

“It's going to be a massacre,” growled Varian. He slammed his hand down again, then turned to the scout. “Get the riders out!”

The scout, having collected himself, saluted and bolted back down the hallway. Varian turned to Moira. “Moria, try to help Tyrande with the heroes we have here. If you can, try to get your Dark Irons down to the dig. Damn the plan. Just get as many people as you can down there, and try not to let them get slaughtered. I'll join you shortly.”

Moira waved her hand dismissively. “We'll try our best, yer majesty.”

With a hurried stride, Moira left the room, and her entourage followed.

Anduin began to follow, head down, heart racing. He cringed when someone grabbed his shoulder and stopped him in place.

“Anduin, no,” Varian said, simply but firmly. “You can't just -”

“I protected the Vale before, Father,” Anduin said, and he turned to look at the king, looming above him. “I  _will_ do it again.”

“That was before you were injured!” snapped Varian. The Stormwind guards lining the walls moved away and began down the hall. Varian rubbed his face and sighed roughly. “I can't let you go down there.”

Anduin shrugged his shoulder, and Varian let go. The prince and the king stared at one another.

Then Anduin set his lips in a thin line, turned, and bolted down the hallway.

“Anduin. Anduin!”

Anduin ran. He nearly tripped with the first steps he took, but caught himself with his cane. His limp made his sprint a clumsy hop. The pain shot to his hip upon his fourth bound. But he kept running, slipping around the corner of the hallway, through archways, past the startled Stormwind guards, past Moira and her dwarves, and ignored his father yelling for him to come back.

He made it past the ethereals' corner and through the portal hall. The imposing, gilded stairs curled to his right and the balcony that overlooked the lowest level was at his left. Where there should have been people, there were none. The bustling Shrine was dead of activity. Frozen.

And then he heard the yells.

They were muffled from distance – outside, beyond the walls. Anduin began to run again just as he heard armor clanking from where he had bolted from. He ignored it and swept down the flight of stairs, each step sending a wince of new agony to his hip, numbed only slightly by his adrenaline – and fear. Only the sweat beading his forehead and the steeled set of his eyes and thinned lips was any hint of his troubles.

He got to the first floor. The yells were louder now. Anduin turned to the right and headed out of the archway that led to the outside of the Shrine.

The burst of activity outside made him flinch. Sentinels on nightsabers and on foot stood at the right side of the large balcony in a hurried congregation of  _some_ order. Tyrande had made it outside, and she stood before them, her blue silk dress like shined gemstone in the warm Vale sun. She spoke and made a sweeping motion with her hand, and the Sentinels saluted before charging down the stairway and disappearing beyond the curve. Tyrande mounted an unmanned white tiger and thundered after them. 

Two Sentinels remained. They were both injured. Anduin recognized Commander Lyalia, her dark teal hair, usually in a ponytail, now swept in a frazzled mess along her shoulders, one of which was missing its shoulderpad. She had one arm in a sling.

Lyalia began to shout, but the din was far too loud; her voice became just another incoherent sound among the chaos.

To the left, the assembly was far more chaotic than even the sloppy line of the Sentinels had been. Heroes hurried to mount their animals, some on horses, some on rams or elekks, and one on a blue drake, who took off and sped into the air. Other heroes didn't bother with mounts. A group of five of them sped down the left stairway. Two on the horses followed them. Moira finally appeared with her dwarves, and she and the others descended down the stairs to join the battle.

This was not the initial charge. This was the fringes of the group. Even as Anduin watched, the balcony emptied, save for civilians and injured, most of whom were collected at the balconies, eyes on the Vale below.

Anduin limped to the balcony. He could no longer run; the pain was too great. Even still, as he maneuvered his way through the remaining crowd and found a spot at the balcony's edge, he made no sign of his agony. The two heroes he sandwiched himself in-between at the balcony stiffened at his presence and scooted away so as to make room for him.

Anduin hardly noticed. He gripped the balcony with one hand. Spread before him lay the Vale, and dotted over it, a host of black, red, and brown, a swarming collection of Horde forces both at the Big Blossom Dig and from the north, nearer to the Horde shrine. Three proto-drakes hovered above the blackened pit. A team of wolf-riders stood at attention near the entrance of the dig, and, squinting, Anduin noted two kodo nearer to the Mogu guardian statues, hauling something tall and dark. It was too far away, too hazy with distance, for him to see what it was.

The soldiers clashed. Blood had already begun to stain the grass. The shouting, the screams of the wounded, and the clangor of steel on steel echoed up to the Shrine like a distant war cry all its own. Those champions Anduin had seen running down the stairs after he had exited the Shrine now joined the battle as he watched, a stream of gilded metal plate and decorative armor

The Kor'kron made a defensive line in front of the Dig; the Shado-pan and Alliance pushed against it, and the aggression in their assault told Anduin everything. Even from where he stood, the deadly precision of Pandaria's fighting force, the sweep of their fists, the whistling of their polearms and the smoke of their attacks was something otherwordly. The more reckless fighting style of the Kor'kron was outmatched by the monks' prowess. Where four orcs fell, only one pandaren did.

But the more the defensive line buckled inward, and the closer the Shado-pan and Alliance got to the dig, the more Anduin realized just how _outnumbered_ the Vale defenders were. There might have been more Kor'kron falling, but to every one Alliance or pandaren, there seemed to be five orcs.

Anduin pulled away from the balcony. If he could get down there, he could help with a large-scale shield or a multitude of smaller ones to help against the onslaught. He'd done the same when the Mogu had invaded the Vale, and it was the very least he could help with now.

He rushed to the stairway. Above, a flurry of wings sailed from the top of the Shrine: the gryphon and hippogryph riders. As the dervish of blue, gold, and purple sped down to the plains, Anduin nearly reached the stairs -

Until his right knee gave way underneath him. Pain shot up his hip, and Anduin stifled a cry only by biting his lip as he fell hard onto his knee. The fall sent another shudder of agony through him. He gripped the side of the bannister of the balcony – above him, now – and panted.

He tried to get up. Again his leg shook, and he slumped back down. Sweat misted at his brow. The pain was acute, sharp, a barbed grip on his hip and knee.

His whole body went slack against it. Anduin grit his teeth.

He couldn't get up.

Someone grabbed his shoulder. Anduin flinched.

“Prince Anduin, are you alright?”

Anduin looked behind his shoulder. Commander Lyalia watched him. “Do you need help?”

“I'm fine,” Anduin said through clenched teeth. He looked back down at the Vale. The Vale defenders were too outnumbered. There was no strategy. Just a zerg of forces. He had to get down there, and soon. His shields could help. Sucking in a breath, Anduin set his weight to his left leg and tried to pull himself up by his grip on the bannister. He made it upright, but when he put a little weight on his right leg, it shook. Anduin hissed and leaned hard against the bannister. He realized only vaguely he was close to where he had spent so much time at the Vale, near the Sentinel's side of the balcony, the red trees curling over to shade them.

Lyalia was watching him. “Maybe we should -”

“No, I'm fine. Just let me get down there.”

Anduin tried to take a step down the stairs. Lyalia grabbed him by the back of the tabard.

“You're going to fall again. You can't -”

“I have to!” Anduin said, twisting from Lyalia's grasp and almost tripping over himself in the process. He got his balance on the banister again. _You can't. You can't_. Anduin was tired of hearing that. “I _won't_ let them die down there!”

Lyalia glared. “We're outnumbered and taken by surprise, yes, but we can hold our own. A priest, even a princely one, won't help much. You'll only get yourself killed.”

One of Anduin's guards came jogging up to Lyalia. Jonathan. The man had lost his Stormwind helmet and his curly black hair was frizzy with sweat. Wild-eyed, he yelled: “Prince Anduin!”

“Has my Father joined the fight?” Anduin asked before Jonathan could say anything else. The guard shook his head.

“No, not yet. He went up top to see the riders off, Your Highness,” the guard said. It was getting harder to hear one another; the din of battle was only escalating, an almost touchable roar around them. “Please, you have to come inside. His Majesty will kill both of us if we're out here when he gets down!”

Anduin pursed his lips and looked back at the Vale. He tried weight on his right leg again and winced.

He wouldn't be able to walk. Anduin locked his jaw. Levitate, maybe, but he'd be snatched easily.

The rush of adrenaline from before became like a sudden weight in his stomach. Anduin couldn't help.

He had looked for this place, pleaded to Xuen the “outsiders'” case, and gotten the Vale opened to all. But he could not protect it this second time.

Anduin slouched hard against the balcony. A sour ball formed at the back of his throat. He looked at the Vale, the fighting. The hindrance of his leg had never hit him as hard as it did now, and tears of frustration threatened to prickle at his eyes.

“Prince Anduin?” Jonathan asked, tentatively. Then Anduin heard Varian's voice from above, at the top of the Shrine.

The aggressive push at the Kor'kron line suddenly surged with energy. The line began to buckle inward as more orcs began to fall.

And then Anduin saw why.

Standing atop the edge of the dig, Garrosh watched the battle before him. Anduin's frustration at himself vanished, replaced with overwhelming dread. The warchief was hazy in distance, but Anduin saw the curve of Mannoroth's tusks and the black tattoos. He hadn't seen Garrosh since the Bell.

Garrosh raised Gorehowl, and the bronze edge of the legendary weapon caught the sun and glinted. He pointed it toward the Shado-pan and Alliance. The worg riders at the dig began to charge, and the beasts leaped over the Kor'kron and began to maul the Vale's defenders. Distant but horrific screaming swelled from the battlefield.

Garrosh began to walk. Two other orcs appeared over the curved edge of the dig's precipice. Between them, they pulled an enormous chest, and struggled to keep up with the Warchief.

The gryphon riders spotted Garrosh. Four of them circled, then dove.

The Dragonmaw above the pit were faster. A proto-drake nearest to the Warchief banked, then flew toward the diving gryphons, mouth agape. A gush of flame whirled from its jaws, and one of the gryphons caught aflame and spiraled down. The three others engaged the drake.

The worg riders were pushing back the Shado-pan and Alliance. Though the Vale defenders fought with the same aggression, the numbers simply weren't there. As the Kor'kron surged forward again, the Alliance and Shado-pan began to buckle and fall apart. More and more fell.

Soon, the defensive and offensive lines disintegrated. The sloppy battle suddenly became no push and pull of forces, but more of a scattering of duels along the bloody plains. Gryphons and hippogryphs and proto-drakes were a whirl of feathers and scales in the sky. A proto-drake fell and, watching it crash, Anduin saw the team of kodo from before approach.

He could see what they were towing behind them now: a bridge, erected up high. A siege bridge. Anduin shook his head, mouth agape. What did Garrosh want with _that_? 

Anduin immediately thought of the Shrine of Seven Stars. It was an Alliance base, and though it was lacking with Alliance heroes, it now hosted the High King and the leaders of the Night Elves and Dark Iron Dwarves.

But watching the kodo, they didn't lumber to the Shrine. They were towing the bridge in the direction of Mogu'shan Palace.

“What are they doing? Garrosh is right there!” Lyalia waved her hands in frustration.

Anduin looked back at Garrosh. The Warchief had made it halfway across the plains. A team of worg riders protected him now, and a Dragonmaw atop a black proto-drake hovered high above him. Most of the gryphons were dead, smoking or bleeding out on the grass.

“What is  _he_ doing?” Anduin said under his breath. Like the kodo, Garrosh headed toward the Palace. 

Some surviving Alliance and Shado-pan rushed him and his entourage. The worg riders fended all of them off, charge after charge. Garrosh didn't even look at his attackers. His eyes were on the central pagoda in front of Mogu'shan Palace.

The kodo team reached the bridge. Kor'kron hopped off of the beasts and began to unravel mechanisms and ropes at the bottom of the bridge.

Then, slowly, the bridge began to shudder and fall forward.

Horrified, Anduin watched as the bridge collapsed. It crushed the forward section of the balcony. Debris tumbled into the pool. The bridge trembled once, then went still, a dark line against the water.

_I could have stopped that_ , Anduin thought, feeling sick. Only months ago he'd stood at the center of that pagoda, beckoning a shield to ward away the Mogu. 

Garrosh, with the chest still rumbling behind him, walked unchallenged onto the bridge. What was he _doing?_ Anduin glanced at the chest.

Garrosh wasn't trying to extract it so he could just run away with it.

_He will make a spectacle of this._

Tyrande was right. Watching Garrosh walk over the glimmering pools, Anduin was filled with a sense of dread. Garrosh was going to do something  _here_ – at the Vale itself. 

At the far end of the bridge, a ball of smoke coalesced into existence – and stepping from it, Taran Zhu. It could have been no one else.

The lord of the Shado-pan faced Garrosh and his entourage alone.

Beside Anduin, Lyalia stiffened. She'd seen Taran Zhu, too.

Anduin didn't move, and neither did Lyalia. It felt as if the roar and clanging of the plains around the pagoda grew dull and far away, and all the energy refocused on the two leaders on the bridge.

Taran Zhu spoke; Garrosh replied. Anduin was too far away to hear what they were saying – but then Garrosh screamed, and Anduin heard that, the warrior's bellow that'd given the Warchief his family name.

Garrosh charged Taran Zhu.

The two fought like something out of legend. Anduin had seen duels before, but never something quite like the distant fight on the bridge. Taran Zhu fought with the grace and strength of a tiger, his punches and swings with his barbed polearm controlled but backed with power. Garrosh matched the pandaren's prowess, making up for his own lack of control in his movements with the sheer strength of his attacks. Each blow the two warriors traded was one inch away from the other's death, blocked and rebuffed.

“Damnit! Is that all we have?”

Anduin started. He looked behind his shoulder, and saw his father stalking over to them, eyes wild and angry, but focused, dangerously so. The king didn't look at him, but _over_ him, at the Vale. Shalamayne swung at his waist, and it looked like the glowing orb at the curve of the sword radiated the smallest bit brighter.

“Yes, sir,” said Lyalia. “We're losing. Tyrande and Moira only have so much.”

She spoke without much emotion, but Anduin knew she was right.

Varian bristled. He took a hold of Shalamayne's hilt and hefted the enormous weapon. He glanced at Anduin and opened his mouth -

Jonathan gasped. It was a sharp enough sound that it drew the Wrynn's attention. Anduin looked at where Jonathan stared.

Anduin gasped; his heart dropped. Garrosh had impaled Taran Zhu with Gorehowl. The weapon was imbedded into the pandaren's gut. Varian cursed behind him.

Garrosh flung Taran Zhu down. The two were at the center of the pagoda now, rounded by golden balcony. The pandaren collapsed and held onto the risen structure in the center of the pagoda: a bannister that opened and led into the pools.

Beyond shock, Anduin registered his father moving past him a beat later than he should have. Unthinking, eyes still on the wounded Shado-pan lord, Anduin grabbed his father by the arm.

“Anduin -”

“Father, look!”

Garrosh gloated over Taran Zhu, words unheard in their distance. But it wasn't Garrosh's strutting that had Anduin filled with a sudden fear. It was the chest. The Kor'kron had pushed it all the way to the drop at the pools.

Garrosh turned. He struck the front of the chest with Gorehowl. The lid opened.

Smoke curled out, black and sha-white. It rippled. Underneath it, something moved, and as the smoke curled away, Anduin saw it: dark purple and beating and fleshy. A giant heart. He saw the valves, the veins, bulging against the sickly bruised flesh of the organ. Even staring at it made Anduin sick, made him want to curl over and give up.

Garrosh leaned and took a hold of the side of the chest.

And then the Warchief pushed the chest up and over.

The heart fell into the center of the pagoda, down the shaft that led straight into the pools.

“No!” Anduin yelled, and pulled forward. He let go of his father. Dimly, he heard Varian shouting something.

The earth quaked. It was a sudden, shifting movement, like they were standing on the back of some waking beast. Anduin wobbled, and grabbed a hold of the balcony as the whole Shrine rumbled. Again his right leg gave out. Anduin slumped. He tightened his grip on the railing and, gritting his teeth, pulled himself back up, eyes on the pools.

The shaking stopped.

The pool around the pagoda began to churn and boil.

Everything happened at once.

A geyser, a font of black matter, swirling and thick, both smoke and like grime, erupted from the center of the pagoda. It swirled up, and up, and up, unthinkable in its climb, a column of horrific darkness. As it swirled high and higher, the pools below began to darken until their shores grew black.

The blackness suddenly surged outward across the plains. Underneath its burn, the golden plains disintegrated. The stretching path of destruction left a trail of black and white-glow char. The golden trees withered and died as soon as the darkness reached them. The smaller pools churned and began to evaporate. Kor'kron, Shado-pan, and Alliance alike writhed and screamed as the plague washed over them.

Above, the geyser stopped its upward spiral. The darkness, like below, began to spread out and over like a fountain. It darkened the skies, swallowed the clouds, the sun.

The Vale began to be eaten away.

It all happened in _seconds._

Anduin felt very far away. A ringing, dull, too dull, honed in his ears. Someone was yelling at him. The black plague swept to the statues. The skies grew pitch black, as if they were in some shadow realm.

The stink hit him. Anduin gagged and pulled back. Rotting. Sweet, disgusting. Fleshy.

The scourge rolled toward the Shrine, a quick-moving, flat burn, wholly unstoppable.

 _Tyrande and Moira are down there_.

And then the darkness was on them.

Anduin had no time to think. He felt someone grab him, a protective grip, but then the blackness swept over the bannisters, curdled away the gilded metal, -

Thoughtless, wordless, Anduin brought up his arm to block his face. In the same moment, a radiating burst of warmth blazed in his chest, and it shot out and around his body – a protective shield. It swelled outward, a golden barrier, glowing and rippling, and under its shielding, protected not only Anduin but all of those to the left of the Shrine balcony.

The plague smashed into the barrier. Anduin flinched and closed his eyes and focused. He could feel the taint pushing against the barrier, then go up and over it to spread out behind its protection. The force of it sent Anduin to his knees. But he kept the shield up.

He could hear people screaming above the roar of the taint. Distant explosions boomed. Anduin, shaking with effort, opened his eyes. Beyond the barrier, he saw that already half of the Vale had been eaten away. Where once was vibrant life, burned char remained, a host of unthinkable destruction.

The rushing plague had reached the Mogu statues. It swept up them, eating away the stone, leaving behind a trail of darkened debris.

Then Anduin heard it: a dull _crack_ that reverberated in his chest.

The shoulder and head of the left statue slowly began to slide off of the body.

All at once, the broken piece fell. It smashed the Golden Lotus pagoda with such a force that Anduin felt his teeth shaking at the impact.

Still the plague spread. On and on and on. No more than thirty seconds had passed since the heart had fallen into the pools.

Anduin grew light-headed. The shield flickered. He clenched his teeth and forced the Light onward, but his head began to loll and the pain of his leg began to flare. He'd exerted too much energy too quickly.

He dropped his hand. The barrier fell.

Anduin collapsed.

\---

Wrathion sat at his bench. 

It was quiet. Still. He sat tense and alert, Left at her usual spot to his left. Other Blacktalons – only three – stood at attention in the silent tavern. 

They were waiting.

He glanced down at the papers on the table, spread out before him like a fan. The thick inked symbol of the Blacktalons, the four fingered claw mark, lay dark on the tops of each and next to the symbol written names and places, all in different handwriting.

_The Timeless Isle. Big Blossom Dig. Stormwind. Varian Wrynn. Garrosh. Dragonmaw._

Wrathion scanned them. He grabbed his cup of coffee – too strong for his tastes, some Mogu drink, but he was in no mood for tea today – and held it warm in his hand. The Agents he'd sent to the Timeless Isle had come back with their report two days prior. Wrathion had been delighted in their skimmed research; Pandaria never ceased in its endless treasures, and Kairoz had not been lying. An entire island had appeared from the mists that had once protected Pandaria, timeless and untouched, brimming with strange energy and mystery. His Agents could not get too close. There was an odd wind current surrounded the island, they'd said, forcing them away on their flying mounts, but they'd discerned as much as they could.

The scrawling info, all hastily written in great sloppy handwriting blotched with careless ink, as if written en route to the Tavern, paled to those on the factions and their leaders. On all of these parchments, the script remained crowded, hounded for space and cramped as each Agent had tried to fit all available facts on a single sheet. The Isle wholly intrigued Wrathion but it was these other papers that he had been pouring over. The past four days, he had pined over them, during the fogged mornings and during his sleepless nights.

Last night, Wrathion had come to his conclusion. It was not out of some final contentment, some peace of mind, but out of necessity. Things moved quickly in the Vale and he could not linger on any more decisions.

And so Wrathion had dropped his favor of the Horde.

Every report had said the same thing. The Horde was shattering. Breaking. Coming apart at every seam, ripping like worn fabric. It'd started with the rebellion in the Barrens and had only picked up in its spiral downhill. Garrosh had even tried to have Vol'jin assassinated, and now the Warchief proclaimed that his Horde was some “True Horde,” which Wrathion found a quaint but unamusing name. It was only composed solely of orcs, it seemed.

With this, Wrathion had no doubt that the siege planned to take place against Orgrimmar would be successful; the Horde itself would be raiding its capitol city, the very one it had been kicked out of by Kor'kron and killers, with the Alliance backing them up. With their capitol burning, the idea that the Horde would be able to turn around and crush and absorb the Alliance into itself was laughable, at best.

It was a shame. Wrathion initially chose the Horde because of their strength, their war capabilities – and their close-knit bond of bands didn't hurt. They were all loyal in their differences. Once, at least. Before Garrosh had this True Horde business.

It wasn't to say Wrathion had ever thought the Alliance as opposite. Far from it. If anything, his Alliance champions and his research into the faction showed Wrathion the Alliance's sheer strength and ingenuity, all very on par with the Horde's.

But it was the Alliance's way of thinking that had Wrathion turning away from them. They were quick to defend and inspire, a wonderful set of traits for a Burning Legion invasion, but they always seemed to choose only righteous paths of action, whereas the Horde took what it needed and did what they had to.  _That_ was what Wrathion had wanted. That was what he had felt closer to. He didn't want to be confined to the Alliance's more rigid set of guidelines.

Yet the Horde was too weak now, too shattered. They simply wouldn't do. Wrathion could work around the Alliance's rigidness, despite his unhappiness with it. Surely King Varian would be happy to crush the Horde once Orgrimmar burned. Whether the High King took the Horde's strength into its own remained to be seen, but Wrathion could move some pieces around. If the Alliance occupied Horde cities, well, that was certainly a good start.

His decision had come not a moment too soon. He had woken from his vague sleep to find that Garrosh had arrived at the Vale and that he had begun orders to pull up something from the Big Blossom Dig. “Something.” Even this late his Agents at the Vale could not get close enough, and it was a wonder that the goblins and orcs at the dig hadn't dropped dead from it. It was thought that their long term exposure had somehow steeled them against the odd sickness that plagued the dig. Whatever it was, it bode not well, and the reports he'd received today told of the Golden Lotus and Shado-pan near to engaging Garrosh to stop him from bringing whatever they'd found up.

Wrathion didn't quite care what Garrosh had found. He remembered the assault of negativity that had rolled through Anduin Wrynn's body and had thus inflicted on Wrathion's, miles away via the bloodgem, but what did it matter, really? It was some Sha-like weapon, no doubt, just like the Divine Bell. Another piece to Garrosh's growing power. Power that would not be enough, surely – or so Wrathion hoped. If the find gave Garrosh an upper hand on both Horde and Alliance alike... Wrathion frowned down at the parchment labeled “Garrosh.” Well, Wrathion had changed from Horde to Alliance. He supposed he could change again if Garrosh ended up winning.

So many loose ends, and Wrathion could do nothing about them but sit here and wait for the battle to end. How he felt like a turned up weapon, loaded with sprung energy unable to go anywhere. At the very least, this struggle allowed him to think only briefly on the dragons. Madam Goya, true to her word – surprisingly – had shared with Wrathion the base of the Dragonmaw's operations, so he might send assassins when he could to get rid of the dragons: Grim Batol. That had shocked him. It seemed too... obvious. Nevertheless, with that information in hand, he'd be proper and ready to send killers there once the Pandaren campaign was over, and then he could send the rest to Blade's Edge, and then have another sweep of Azeroth, for any straggles like the dragon Ashmaw.

He still hadn't heard back from his favorite rogue. The large dragon Vaxian, whom he'd sent the rogue to kill, had lived. That worried -

The ground shook beneath his feet. Wrathion paused. It'd been an idle tremor, but every inch of his body became alight at its quivering.

“Anyone feel that?” said the worgen Blacktalon at Wrathion's right, whom he'd taken to calling Yellow, thanks to the color of her teeth.

He flicked his hand for quiet, surprised into action at the shift – but then the ground moved again in one faint lurch, enough that Wrathion's parchments slid forward. His concentration slipped.

The shake came and then was gone. Wrathion prodded mentally at the earth, lest it move again and confuse him, but he felt no moving plate or shifting mud. Stillness, immovability. Nothing else.

“That was not an earthquake,” Wrathion said, and frowned. “A – fall or collision?”

“That would be a big fall,” Left mumbled. They glanced at each other in a sudden silence and Wrathion knew they thought the same thing.

The Vale?

Wrathion turned away from her and focused inward to his store of blood magic. He sought out the multiple points of the Agents he had stationed in the Vale – close to a dozen – and picked one dim red light.

_What happened, there? What is happening?_

He had asked his Agents to update him on the goings of the battle as quickly as events happened. Their last report had been a half hour ago, when the Shado-pan had engaged.

He received no answer, only a static black humming. Wrathion frowned and tried to look through the blood gem – but only darkness greeted him. If the Agent was dead, he wouldn't have been able to have connected to the gem at all.

He tried another. And another. None answered. A growing sense of unease welled in him.

Someone yelled outside. The abruptness of the noise made Wrathion pull away from his blood magic. He leaped to his feet. The Exchange Guards near the Tavern, whom Wrathion could see through the open archway, looked up and gaped. They abandoned their posts and rushed out of view.

Wrathion went outside, and tried not to bound his way there.

Walking onto the patio of the Tavern, he watched a crowd of his Blacktalons, Exchange Guards, and even two or three adventurers gathered in the courtyard near the kite stand. They all looked up.

Wrathion frowned and peered skyward.

Beyond the mists of the Veiled Stair, the edges of a black fog high, high in the atmosphere crept out above the mountains bordering the Vale. The fog was thick and dark and ugly and rolling, and as he stared Wrathion realized he heard nothing, only the awed buzz of silence as the mass rolled above them like a coming stormcloud.

A smell wafted down, faint but one that caught at the back of the throat: a rot, sweet and cloying. One of his Agents gagged.

“The Vale,” whispered a Pandaren Exchange Guard, and her voice was the only sound, fearful and quiet, “what happened in the Vale?”

_Garrosh_ . It could be nothing else. What could have possibly created such an expulsion? The earthquake -

A sharp, peeling note wailed. Wrathion clutched at his head. The world fell away. The fog was forgotten and the Vale unremembered.

The sound was all he heard. It was all his world. He dropped to his knees. Only dimly was he aware of his Agents looking down at him, and dimmer still did he realize he was the only one who could hear the wailing tone.

He yelled in an attempt to drown out the noise with his own, but he could not even hear his voice. The tune droned on. He closed his eyes so tight he saw the red of his lids and spots and not darkness.

Muffled voices. Someone gripping his shoulder. Wrathion couldn't move. He felt a dull pressure at his scalp.

And then the noise peeled off into a finer note. It sounded as if it was being fine-tuned, dialed to some other frequency, up and down and up and down - disturbingly familiar in its looping.

Images flashed before him in indistinct and dim colors. The Vale – or what was left of it – blackened, burning as some great black and white tide of energy sucked outward and bled the landscape of color and beauty. A building exploding, chains aflame, orange wings rising from the wooden debris. Countless of mantid swarming over the Wall into the blackening Vale. An empty chest.

Wrathion felt himself leave the ground. Someone was carrying him.

The images stopped. The sound stopped. Everything stopped. Wrathion opened his eyes and gasped, the sudden clarity like a slap, all the colors of even the inside of the Tavern – when had he come back inside? – honey brown and hazel and golden yellow.

“Sit him down here,” Left said. Wrathion found himself sitting on his bench again, the table to his back. He leaned back hard against it; his body felt like jelly, all weak-limbed and immobile. “My Prince? Prince Wrathion?”

“I'm _fine,”_ Wrathion wheezed.

He promptly turned and vomited onto the floor. Left cursed.

Wrathion leaned back up and coughed. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. Cold sweat beaded his brow but quickly turned hot at the heat of his skin. He groaned.

“Here, here. Drink something.” Yellow shoved a cup of water at him. Wrathion pushed it away and sat up and put his head in his hands.

There was a shuffle of movement in front of him. Wrathion ground his teeth and looked between the gaps of his fingers. Left knelt before him now.

“What happened?” She asked, voice low.

“I'm fine,” Wrathion repeated, but his heartbeat began to quicken to a bursting rapidness and his breath came in shallow huffs. “Get people to the Vale. _Now_! Now!”

Left pulled away from him and began to bark orders at the Blacktalons gathered outside. Wrathion leaned back against the bench and rubbed his face. He tried to calm himself down with deep breaths, but that wail had smashed through all sensory barriers: now everything was too sharp, too bright, an overload of feelings from his growing panic and awareness at the situation.

That tide of darkness he'd seen sweeping over the Vale – the cold fury of it was unfathomable. It couldn't possibly have destroyed the Vale. A hallucination, surely...

_It is true we were not there. We did not see the Old One, with his wrath and terror and rage. But we sense Him. We see through the sonar._

_The Old Ones rise again._

Wrathion felt sick again, recalling the mantids' voices. He hadn't had vivid dreams like the ones from Sik'vess and the ones that had haunted him for weeks afterward in the past handful of days. 

But that sound was unmistakable. That expulsion – it had made the images come back, made him fall. The Sha. Y'shaarj. Linked, forever.

He began to breath so quickly he felt light-headed. The Vale was only miles away. Miles away. What had Garrosh unleashed?

Left came back inside and stared at him strangely. “My Prince?”

“The sound at Sik'vess,” Wrathion murmured. “Images like those the mantid gave me.  _That_ is what happened.” He shuddered and hated himself for the unwilled motion. “I believe I – saw what Garrosh unleashed: a wave of some Sha energy. The Vale is destroyed.”

Left said nothing, but she frowned. As always she remained unreadable in her dark expression.

“Perhaps we should move you,” Left said after a moment.

“ _Move_ me?”

“Away from the Vale. You can't risk -”

“I know what I cannot  _risk_ , Left!” Wrathion hissed through his clenched teeth and ran a hand down his face. He took off his turban to run the same hand through his hair, and noticed his fingers came away with something lukewarm and wet: blood. He must have dug his fingernails into his scalp outside when he'd first fallen.

“I cannot run away again,” Wrathion growled. “I have done enough running. Nothing happened at Sik'vess when they used that sonar -”

“Because Sabellian stopped it.”

Wrathion glared at her. “Why must you be so difficult, Left?”

“Why must  _you_ , My Prince?” She swept her arm out to gesture outside. “If what you saw is  _true –_ the Vale is too close, Prince Wrathion. You've had nightmares for weeks. Another Sha-scare would be a disaster.”

What she was not mentioning hovered heavy between them. They both knew what the Sha was really about, at least for him. Monstrous as it was, it was its link to the Old God that made it such a threat.

Wrathion turned away from her and looked around the Tavern. Yellow was the only other Blacktalon inside. Outside, the crowd that had gathered to watch the fog had spread out, from what he could see through the open portal of the Tavern. The adventurers he'd seen were in the process of mounting their cloud serpents and gryphon, their eyes wide, movements clumsy in their frantic quickness – probably going to the Vale. The Exchange Guards he could see remained staring up. The rot stench lingered.

The bright azure of the cloud serpents' scales and the dull yellow of the Exchange Guard's uniforms became too difficult to look at, and Wrathion closed his eyes.

It was then the ground shook again, but this was the lightest tremor of them all, and the stillness that followed felt like a strange and horrible finality.

With the suddenness of breaking glass, the sound returned. Wrathion jerked back so hard that the back of the table that bruises were sure to form.

_I – have..._

The sound stopped and released Wrathion. He gasped and shot up to his feet. The voice. That had not been  _his_ voice. Some other voice, ancient and rumbling, a voice from nightmares and things repressed. His gut churned and he felt as if he was about to vomit again.

“I need to -” Wrathion stopped himself.  _I need to leave_ , he'd been about to say. But no, no, how could he now? Everything had been going well. His plan had been laid out and clearly the battle had come to some climatic peak. This was what he'd been waiting for! He was supposed to effect the next events to come – not be affected  _by_ them. 

Distant screaming. Wrathion flinched at the slight sound.

“A voice – oh, Left, it was a voice,” he moaned. Left narrowed her eyes at him and he collapsed back into the bench. “What did those mantid _do_ to me?” He looked around the room wildly. The blood rushed in his ears. Everything felt like an echo. “I need to get out of here.”

No - damn this place, damn his plans! Anything to not hear that voice again, to get away from its source.

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here!”

Left nodded. His sudden change in opinion didn't seem to confuse her. If anything, she looked more determined, her tusked mouth set in a grim line.

“We can get you to the Eastern Kingdoms -”

“ _No_! I am not running that far away.” He rose again to his feet. “No. I _must_ stay in Pandaria. Simply... far away from the Vale!”

“ _My Prince._ The Sha infests all of Pandaria. We have no idea what Garrosh has done, if it was _him_ who did anything at all. What if it is some – large-scale catastrophe beyond the Vale? That fog is right above us!”

Wrathion paced. “That wasn't the Sha,” he muttered. “An aftermath of sorts, like smoke from a flame. I am _sure_ of it.” He paused and looked at his parchments on the table. “I will have to get as far away from the Vale, of course... but no, I will not leave Pandaria. My champions, everything I have planned... yes! Aha! I know. This is it, Left!” Wrathion snatched one of his parchments up. The clumsy slope of the handwriting, the blotched ink, his temporary savior. “The Timeless Isle! It's far off the coast. That will be _perfect_.” Wrathion grinned, and it looked desperate on his strained expression, all taut lines.

Left paused. Then she nodded. “We'll get a kite prepared immediately.”

Wrathion gripped the parchment. It wrinkled underneath the pressure of his touch. This was only another bump in the road.

His heart was beating too fast. He closed his eyes.

He would get past this like everything else in his life. It was a simple hurdle. He'd leap over it with one quick bound.

\---

Sabellian circled high over the Timeless Isle.

He'd learned, since he'd arrived (he had no idea how long ago that'd been; the sun never moved and gave no indication of time) how high the vicious wind barrier was, and so he glided right below it. For extra security, he used the highest tip of his top fin to test where the barrier was, like dipping a claw in water to test the temperature.

He was too close to the barrier for comfort, and so he dipped his wings and glided a little farther down. Sabellian passed over the yaungols' fiery terrace far below. Cloying ash dirtied the air so completely the whole of the terrace was dim of light and remained a greyish red even in the highest reaches of air. The large burning kilns dotting the terrace churned even more smoke and the dozens that were lit glowed in the fog. None of the dots of yaungol looked up at him; Sabellian blended in with the smoke.

He paid as little attention to them as they did to him. Sabellian had explored the entirety of the Timeless Isle and no longer found interest in the yaungol or their settlement. He'd already surveyed their sprawling territory.

He left the terrace and breathed in the clearer air. Sabellian winced. He could not yet breathe in a full inhaled without pain. His stomach wound grew uncomfortably taut with the action and his timeless days here had shown that his wounds had begun to heal even slower than they had on the mainland, an unfortunate side-effect of this place. He may be away from the Old Gods, but he remained weak in body.

Sabellian turned to the Celestial Court. From his altitude, the ancient stone field looked like a small, long box, its white-grey stone an interruption of the endless green of the Isle. He dived closer. The Court grew more distinct and all the more regal. The small box became a grand courtyard made of thick and ancient blocks, worn by time. The center - an arena of sorts – was sunken a few feet into the earth, and ringing this idle pit was another paved area, acting like a thick frame to the field like the gold filigree of a pendant. In many of the cracks of the stone, vines snaked from the edges of the open wilds, and even dipped down into the arena to pool in clusters at the base of corners.

An archway, curled at the top in an architecture Sabellian had come to recognize as Yaungol in nature, stood to the south of the courtyard. Sabellian slowed down and landed atop the archway. He only just fit.

Carefully, he folded his legs and lay down. He'd done this maneuver once or twice. The first time, he'd almost knocked down the archway. The second time went easier. This time, he was practiced.

His left back leg couldn't fold properly, the one which had been harpooned. It ached far too much. He let it hang off the side.

From this high, he could see the whole of the Celestial Court. He felt like one of the Celestial's statues, placed towering around the plaza, one for each corner, all sculpted in elegant design.

He let his front paws dangle off the front of his perch. The silence here was definite. Every sound seemed a sharper and realer thing for it: the breeze, the calls of the birds high above. Even his very breathing remained a rumbling echo among the stillness. Timeless, indeed. He snorted.

Sabellian lay there for a time. It was more comfortable upon the archway, out in the unmoving sun, than it was in the cave, too cramped for his liking and inhabited by another irritated dragon, besides. Nasandria had become increasingly agitated as the days had passed.

_“When are we going home?”_

_“What is taking so long?”_

Chromie had held true to her promise and had shared the portal schedules in the Vale with him. They were erratically spread. Portals, even in a gifted mage's hand, were difficult to master. Portals to an entirely different planet called for even further refinement. For this, portals to Shattrath were rare in scheduling and Chromie warned him that the Vale was having “issues” and to expect the schedule to suddenly drop. That had been... three days ago. Maybe.

Sabellian had taken this news as a goading push for his planning. Flights around the Isle were for stretches and exploration, but mostly allowed him to think. But with each flight, each circle around the island, he found no easy solution to Wrathion. Luring him to the island was a stupid idea. Sabellian had no means of contacting the whelp. He wasn't going to send a strongly worded letter. But he could not leave the island, for fear of the Old Gods, and he would not send Nasandria to be some messenger dog. Sabellian idly pined for a nether-drake he could send instead. At the very least, his “death” would give him the element of surprise over the Black Prince.

On his flights, he found himself, unwillingly, thinking of the White Tiger when he could not think of a solution to the boy. For a mere moment, a breath, a blink, he'd considered on each flight leaving Wrathion be, and returning to Blade's Edge to protect his children against any others Wrathion would no doubt send – but each time he brushed the thought away. He was no coward, and would not limp home when he had already suffered so at the hands of a child and his lackeys. The depths of his pride would not allow it. Could not allow it. He had been a lieutenant of Deathwing and had killed thousands; the lieutenant had never quaked, and Sabellian would not quake now in the face of a whelp.

But he was not that lieutenant anymore. Sabellian stretched his claws and breathed deep the green air. He had been terrible, loathed, and feared, once. He exhaled, and remembered. Repressed memories of burning towers and cities, screaming mortals and dying dragons, grew muddy in his mind's eye. The smell of burning flesh, the taste of it, his jaws ripping the head off of a dueling Red. The crunch and grind of a building as he smashed it with his barbed tail. Killing. So much killing. Countless.

And now here he sat, exiled again to some forgotten place, hiding from _voices_ and without regard of what to do about the prince. The lieutenant would have leaped off this wretched isle and found Wrathion at that blasted inn, and crushed him underneath his paws, without care as to such recklessness. Sabellian swished his tail and snorted softly. Had that not been his first idea, when he had come to that Tavern? But then he had heard of Wrathion's purified state, and he had to know, fixated upon that beacon of salvation not only for him but for his children, all that he had in the world.

No – that thought of saving himself and his children, of sparing Wrathion for that information, had not come from the lieutenant but from _him,_ from what he had become when the Old Gods left him. Some other unnamed entity born in Blade's Edge. Baron Sablemane, maybe. Was this entity a coward? Had he become one, with the blind viciousness gone? He considered following through with the idea of simply flying off of the island to Wrathion, right then – but he did not move, nor even stretch a wing. Go off the island and he would go mad within a handful of days. He could not do that. Could not risk it.

Perhaps he was a coward.

Sabellian grunted low in his throat and shifted his position on the archway. He tucked his limp back leg up closer to his body. Enough thought of this.

He looked out over the Celestial Court and wondered as to its use. The arcane, wind-whipped sand smell of the Bronze remained thick here, and he wrinkled his nose. He'd seen some mortals on the beach some time ago. He would have to be more careful of these open layabouts.

But after a while of his relaxation, Sabellian smelled musk, and of a familiar quality – not like the tigers or yaks that inhabited this place. Sabellian identified it immediately and snorted, but did not look down.

“Misha,” he called out, “I don't know how you crossed an island, but you need to go back home to your orc.”

The bear roared. Sabellian twitched his fins and ignored her. He stared out at the Court and hoped she would go away.

“What if her orc is already here?”

Sabellian dug his claws into the stone.

His stomach suddenly became like a tangled net. He looked down, frozen.

Below, standing next to the archway, stood Rexxar. Next to him sat Misha. The half-orc looked out of place, standing there among the ancient stone. He was a thing of rough wilderness, misplaced even in the aged glimpse of civilization around them. Fading bruises covered his loosely armored chest, and bandages were wrapped around his unarmored shoulder and around his neck, concealing his collarbone.

The beastmaster watched him, his face shadowed in the high, unmoving sun thanks to his wolf mask.

Sabellian didn't move. The sight of the half-orc sent a sour coldness in him. Rexxar seemed half an illusion. The dragon came to, and quickly looked away.

“Then I suppose she's lucky to have found you,” Sabellian said, and his voice, in comparison to its usual strong drawl, remained somewhat of a stutter.

Silence followed. Below, Rexxar sighed. “It is good to see you alive, Sablemane.”

Sabellian narrowed his eyes. He dared not look down at the half-orc, now. How Rexxar know it was him? It was impossible. Rexxar had never known his true form.

“I don't know the name,” Sabellian said, and flicked his tail.

“My apologies. Should I be calling you Sabellian instead?”

Sabellian looked at Rexxar again, nostrils flared.

“And how do you know that name?”

“Come – does it matter? I know who you are. Your voice is hard to misplace, no matter what form speaks it.”

Sabellian swished his tail. He stared at Rexxar in silence for a long moment, and then, sighing roughly, he let his fins got a bit flat across his head and neck.

“I had wondered as to why Misha was following me,” he said begrudgingly. There was no denying his identity now. “Why are you here? And _how_ do you know -”

“I am here for you, among other things.”

“For me? Touching.”

“Come down from your perch, Baron. You are avoiding my eyes.”

Sabellian exhaled. He slid from the archway like an oversized cat and then jumped down to earth. He landed and the ground shuddered underneath his weight. No sooner did his paws hit the ground did they become hands and feet, and Sabellian straightened and turned to Rexxar in his mortal guise.

Sabellian sighed. Misha nudged at one of his feet with her nose. Rexxar regarded him in an unreadable silence.

“Let us have it, then,” Sabellian said.

“Have what?”

“You cannot possibly be unfazed by this,” Sabellian snapped.

“I don't know what you mean.”

Sabellian glowered up at the half-orc, who was at least four feet taller than he was. “I hid what I was from you,” he began, voice already heated in an argument that had yet to start. “I lied to you throughout all of these years I have known you, you foolish orc. I am a black dragon, hated by most sane denizens of Azeroth. This does not _phase_ you?”

Sabellian wasn't sure where the anger was coming from, but as he stared up at Rexxar, the half-orc's face shadowed and unreadable in that damned wolf mask, he realized it was from sort of... fear. Not something from fright, or something that would keep him up at night; nothing like what the voices made him feel. An anxiousness, he thought, but something a bit...  _more_ than that. Rexxar was the only thing that was close to a “friend” that he had. The orc  _had_ to be angry with him for such treachery, and there went  _that_ single comrade.

Rexxar stared at him. Then the half-orc breathed out, his deep chest flattening as all the air rushed out of him. “I don't want to insult you,” he began slowly, “but your true identity wasn't very difficult to surmise.”

“It  _what_ ?”

“Have you ever realized what you're wearing?”

Sabellian leaned away from Rexxar, glaring. The idea alone that Rexxar had somehow  _guessed_ that Sabellian was a dragon  _was_ , indeed, insulting, and his worries about Rexxar's reaction lessened somewhat in his annoyance. His disguise was immaculate! “What I'm  _wearing_ ? Yes, I have full realization as to my articles of clothing.”

“Blade's Edge Mountains is the hottest place in Outland.”

“ _And_ ?”

“I never – not once – saw you sweat or pant or gasp for air in the heat, not even when the sun was highest.”

Sabellian frowned. He glanced down at himself: at all the many layers of thick, heavily-dyed robes, at the white turtleneck undershirt, at his thick boots and gloves. He never felt too hot, being a dragon. Thinking of it, any mortals who had dared Blade's Edge had always been sweating in heavy armor or robes of their own... it simply hadn't occurred to him that his outfit and coolness in the high heat would be  _odd_ .

“Ah,” Sabellian said, lamely. He then huffed and shot another glare at Rexxar. “But that hardly explains how you knew I was a dragon.”

“I had a guess; I didn't know.”

“It was a deep enough guess that the truth of it doesn't rattle you, Rexxar.”

Rexxar grunted. “I can give more examples. You had contained dragonflame, rare, available at all times. The only place you could have slept were the caves abandoned by the ogres; your disdain for the Cenarion Expedition was made plain, so I knew you did not stay with them in the forest. You kept whelps as messengers. You didn't have a first name -”

“Fine. Yes. I get the point.” Sabellian huffed, and then rubbed at the back of his neck. To think his impeccable disguise would be given away by mannerisms was embarrassing. He considered this new realization in silence.

“You said nothing about this keen-eyed guess of yours,” Sabellian finally said, in an accusatory tone.

Rexxar shrugged, but the casual motion of his huge shoulders made him suddenly flinch, and Sabellian frowned. The beastmaster continued as it hadn't occurred. “It was your secret to have, not mine. I thought to allow you to tell me on your own time. And it was only a guess, old friend. What if I was wrong? No, I could not simply tell you what I thought.”

Sabellian studied him. “You have good diplomacy for an orc.” And with this, the anger left him, and Sabellian sighed roughly. “And your lack of anger is genuine?”

“I don't see why it wouldn't be.” One side of Rexxar's lips twitched, as if the half-orc was bordering on some inane sense of amusement.

“And I am no simpering Red. I am a Black Dragon. This does not bother you?” Sabellian's voice hinged on great suspicion, and he squinted at the orc.

Here Rexxar hesitated, and the well of anxiousness from before reappeared in Sabellian's chest.

“I have no qualms with what you are,” Rexxar said, and his words were more slowly said than usual, as if he had put deep thought into them during his moment of silence. “Heritage and finished history means nothing to me, and you have given me no hints of a monstrous nature.”

Sabellian stared at the half-orc. He relaxed, the anxious curl gone. Unsure of what else to do or say, he cleared his throat and grabbed for words. “You are a strange orc,” he muttered.

“I have heard that often,” Rexxar replied, but he had a curious and faraway glint to his eye as he spoke.

Sabellian felt at a loss. He had, at fleeting times, thought to share with Rexxar the truth of what he was. Every time, he had dismissed the notion, wary of the beastmaster's reaction. He'd expected disgust, anger, even hatred. Sabellian had seen the half-orc's eyes grow hot with rage when they had spoken of the gronn, and this anger Sabellian always thought to one day be directed at him.

And here Rexxar was, casual about the affair like it was a simple shift in the breeze. Sabellian wasn't sure how to react.

But something else occurred to him. The dragon studied Rexxar. “You knew my true name,” he said. “How did you know that?” More questions rose. “Why were you trying to find me?”

“Samia shared with me your true name,” Rexxar said, and the casualness of his face shifted, and deep lines appeared in concentrated edges on his masked face.

“Samia?” Sabellian straightened. “Why would – she would not give that away,” he said. “What happened in the Mountains?” And here Rexxar became a beacon of sudden knowledge to him, a link to the home he'd left behind.

Rexxar nodded to the stone table that sat a little to the left of the archway and overlooked the Celestial Court. Though it had no chairs, Rexxar said, “Sit. I have – many things to tell you.”


	33. Chapter 33

 

The cave was dark; the opening was narrow enough that Rexxar had had some trouble getting inside with his broad shoulder span, and the light was blocked by Misha's massive form. The bear sat at the entrance, a gruff ruffle of fur and muscle.

The glowing orbs in Sabellian's snake spaulders lit up the dragon's face. Shadows flickered and shifted along the craggy walls as he paced back and forth. Already a small line of worn-away sand from his repeated back-and-forth was shorn into the soft dirt ground.

“Stupid, foolish girl,” he growled. “I told her to protect the brood. A single task!” He turned when he got to the opposite wall and walked back the way he'd come. Nasandria, curled in her dragon form, watched him from the back of the shallow cave, and so did Rexxar, though the hunter leaned against the western wall.

“Wrathion's rogues attacked,” Rexxar said. “We were told you were going to be killed. Samia had no choice -”

“She had every choice!” Sabellian snapped. He shot a glare at the hunter, but didn't stop his pacing. “I told her to protect the brood, not me. If you were told I would die, then so be it. Now look what's been done!”

After Rexxar had arrived, the hunter had sat Sabellian down at the Celestial Court and had explained all that had happened, both in Blade's Edge and in Azeroth: the ambush from Wrathion's rogues, the poisoned water, the Netherwing, the meeting with Wrathion, and finally the Dragonmaw. Sabellian had gone back to the cave in a flurry of fury, too irate to stay at the Celestial Court or to even stay still.

“Are you not part of the brood?” Rexxar asked. “You're the broodfather.”

“Don't get smart with me, Beastmaster,” Sabellian said. “Protecting her siblings is what I wanted her to do. My fate was irrelevant.”

Rexxar sighed. “If you were dead, Wrathion was still a threat, dragon. Samia and the rest wanted to finish your task. Wrathion would come for them if you were gone. Is killing the Prince not protecting the brood?”

Sabellian growled. “Shut up.” He stopped his pacing with a sudden halt and stood there, chest heaving. “Do you know where they are? The Dragonmaw?” He turned to stare at Rexxar. The Beasmaster looked uncomfortable in the cave: his shoulders were hunched, and even then his head almost hit the ceiling.

Rexxar hesitated. “No,” he said, and Sabellian threw up his hands in the air then began pacing again, a low, angry rumble now thundering in his chest. “I was injured. If I had tracked them, I would not have been able to free them. My animals are strong, but against the legion of proto-drakes, we are little.” Sabellian saw the hunter watching him. “I made a choice, Baron.”

“The wrong one,” Sabellian snapped, but he huffed and went quiet. His boots made soft scuffing noises against the dirt. He knew Rexxar was right, but what could he do? “The Dragonmaw could be in the Eastern Kingdoms by now,” he said. “And I cannot leave this island without falling into madness in only a handful of days.” His hip began to ache. It hadn't healed much, and he did not want Rexxar to see his limp. He stopped his pacing again and ran a hand through his tangled hair. “How can I help my children if I turn against you?”

Rexxar sighed. “Hadn't thought of that,” he admitted. “But we can think of something. Samia and the others cannot just remain in chains.”

“Obviously not, you ingrate!”

Nasandria raised her head from her front paw. “What about Pyria? You said she wasn't captured.”

Rexxar shook his head, and the tassels of the wolf helm swayed. “I don't know,” he said. “She escaped with the netherdrakes during the battle. If the Dragonmaw tracked them down, I have not heard of it.”

The fins along Nasandria's forehead crowned back, and she put her head back down.

Sabellian took a deep breath. It did nothing to calm him down. “I'm going for a walk,” he said, then turned and stalked to the entrance. Misha perked her ears up as he came up to her, but Sabellian managed to skirt past the spirit bear before she could block him in or snuffle his pockets for food.

He winced slightly at the sun. How he missed the night. At least the cave remained a shadowy place. A duo of the giant albatrosses circled above, but careened away at the sight of him. He'd plucked more than one from the sky for meals in these past days, and they knew him in both human and dragon form, now.

Grass stuck to his boots as he walked. He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to get some air. Do something. He rubbed at his face and shook his head, and made his way through a large path between two of the massive hills that dotted the island. It smelled of dirt and marsh-salt.

“Foolish, stupid hatchling,” Sabellian grumbled. “Idiot.” What had Samia been thinking? But then again she was always pushing against his ideas, always. She'd never been one to completely obey. She always had to add some complication. It'd been at her insistence that she be the one to investigate Obsidia's Wyrmcult, and her idea to steal the whelps back from the cultists. He sighed roughly. He was closer to the shore, now.

He was at a loss. He'd been truthful when he'd said he'd lose himself in a couple of days if he left the island. How could he find Samia and his other children? Vaxian and Pyria... his blood curled as he thought of orcs on their backs, as he thought of his children being used as machines of war, _animals_ of war. He would have to do something. _Have_ to. He would devour Zaela himself before he allowed his hatchlings to be servants again, especially in the hands of mortals.

But then there was the subject of Wrathion to consider.

He shook his head. No, his children in the hands of the Dragonmaw came first now. They were in the most danger; Wrathion would move more slowly to attack the brood at Blade's Edge, Sabellian was sure. The boy was cocky, smug. He'd think he would have time.

He moved past the haunted village and then a smaller green mound, and the grass led into sand which sunk heavily under his feet.

He stopped.

On the beach, in the very camp where he and Nasandria had first arrived, were a host of mortals. There must have been perhaps twenty of all Horde races. A Tauren and a Pandaren Timewalker busied themselves with throwing a red cloth over the tent near the kite master. Others talked and milled with one another; some had brought mounts. But even from afar Sabellian felt a tension among them, a rippling grit to their faraway words.

What were they doing here? He'd seen a couple of mortals beyond the Timewalkers, but only about three, and they'd seemed very lost. These mortals, however, looked to be exactly where they'd wanted to be.

He went over. The hem of his robe dragged a little on the sand. As he neared, the closest Horde turned to stare at him; some outright glared, particularly an orc who grabbed for the hilt of his axe at his belt. Sabellian resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Why are you here?” Sabellian asked, gruff.

“This isle isn't just for the Alliance, dog,” the orc said. Sabellian glanced at him, then looked the others.

“Don't make me repeat the question,” he said.

The Horde glanced at each other, but Sabellian noticed how their shoulders were sagging, how their heads were lowered, how they didn't grip their weapons. They were exhausted. Out of it. Too tired to fight, it seemed – save for the orc.

“Thought we'd explore this place a bit,” the goblin said. “Better here than on the mainland, yeah?”

“The mainland's interesting enough,” Sabellian said. “I don't see much wrong with it.” Just his luck. He'd gotten used to his free-flights around the isle without having to worry about mortals. He should have known more would flock here.

The goblin stared at him. “Talkin' about the Vale, moron.”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow. “The Vale?”

“Yes,” a blood elf said. A frazzled-looking pink crane bobbed at her side. “It's been destroyed.”

Sabellian paused. Destroyed was a harsh term. It'd been a golden and beautiful place, warm on the scales and pleasing to the eye. He'd gotten the binding waters there for his sleeping elixir.

And he'd remembered the voices in the water.

“Destroyed,” Sabellian repeated. “By what?”

The group glanced at each other again in dark, nervous looks. The orc averted his eyes.

“Garrosh dragged up an Old God's heart and dumped it into the pools,” the undead of the party, an unsavory looking fellow with a worm dangling at his left ear, finally said. “Sucked up all the water. Didn't see it myself, but I heard the Vale got burnt up like a parchment in flame. _Whoosh_. Gone.”

Sabellian felt a sudden rush in his head. The last half of the undead's sentence fell dim. “An Old God's _heart_?”

“That's what I heard,” the undead said. The silence of the other Horde told Sabellian the truth of it. The shame of their own Warchief felt touchable. “Why we're all here. We don't want to deal with that.”

“Brave of you,” Sabellian said, more as an after-thought. The blood elf glared at him.

He thought.

Yes, something had felt _off_ about the pools. The voice had been enough of an indication, but – a physical manifestation of an Old God was far more powerful than their whispers.

He glanced idly at the sand at his feet. He hadn't felt anything, no hint that the Gods were grabbing a hold of him. He just hoped this new, unearthed power wouldn't be enough to wiggle through the time-barriers here.

Samia. His children.

They were in Pandaria.

“How much did this corruption spread?” Sabellian asked. Titans! Samia and the others hadn't been here half as long as he had been, so they wouldn't fall corrupted so quickly.

But if there was an Old God brought up from the shadows -

“Don't know,” the goblin said. “Got a big ol' smoke smog that busted up over the mountains, but think it was just contained to the Vale. I _think,_ anywho.” He shrugged. “I'm here, y'know, just to be safe.”

Maybe it would be best if the Dragonmaw _were_ in the Eastern Kingdoms. Anywhere but here. The sense of anger and urgency rose in his chest. He needed to go back and inform the others. Servants of mortals was one thing. Servants of their old masters? No. No, he could not let that happen. Never again.

“You're welcome,” the goblin grumbled as Sabellian began walking away.

Up until he heard the last fragment of another group's conversation.

“- I'm telling ya, mon, I saw him. Headed right this way. Tell me, who else is gonna be a little purple dragon? Prince Wrathion!”

Sabellian stopped.

He turned back and headed over to the troll, standing with a small, black-furred tauren. They watched him come.

“What did you say?” he demanded of the troll. The troll blinked.

“'Bout what?”

“The prince!”

“Oh! Yeah, mon, saw him sailing this way on a couple of kites. Overtook him pretty fast on mah' bat, yknow, but sure as Har'koa it was him.” She shot a grin to her tauren friend, who huffed quietly.

“I don't think it's him,” the tauren said. “I heard he was in Townlong Steppes, Bahga.”

“Nah. That was long time ago. I'm telling you. It was a black dragon whelp. And there were those rogues.” Bahga looked at Sabellian and nodded. “You a champion of his? Me too.”

“Not quite.” Sabellian glanced at the sea. It was calm except for perhaps a couple yards off, where a line of the ocean began violently choppy, topped with white-caps. The wind barrier, clearly. “How far off was he?”

“Mm. Dunno. An hour or two, might be,” the troll said. “Figure he wants a piece of this place's power like some of us. Not surprisin' me.”

_Or he's running._

Sabellian watched the sea. He flexed and unflexed his hands.

“My thanks,” he rumbled to the two, and he headed back to the cave.

He had some planning to do.

* * *

 

It was dark and warm in the room when Anduin woke.

He stared at the ceiling. He knew he was in his room; he could see the end-feathers of the Chi-ji mural out of the corner of his eye, painted on the western wall. The paint was specter-like in the darkness.

It took a moment for Anduin to feel anything, and when he did, he felt only a tired ache. As he stirred, he grimaced. Even the tips of his fingers had a distinct, painful tingling.

Someone else was in the room. Anduin could hear them breathing. Who –

Fear. Sudden and bright.

The Vale.

A rush of images: Garrosh. The chest. Taran Zhu, speared upon Gorehowl. The font of blackness, the destruction, the curdling metal.

 _The Vale_.

He sat up. Too quickly, it seemed – the room spun. He didn't care. He needed to see the Vale.

Anduin grabbed the covers. The windows to the right of the room were closed off with red curtains. Only a sliver of light managed to struggle through the slip at the center.

Someone grabbed his shoulder.

Anduin tensed and turned. It was his father. The king sat at his bedside in an armchair he seemed to have dragged up close to Anduin's bed. He was not wearing his armor. In its place were casual clothes: nothing more than a wrinkled tunic and dark blue pants. His eyes were worn with blackened circles.

“Take it slow, Anduin,” he said. “You've been in bed for two days.”

Anduin glanced at the windows again.

“Father. The Vale.”

No, a bad dream, he -

Varian sighed, and his shoulder fell. And Anduin knew.

“There was nothing we could do,” Varian said. His voice had the hesitant quality of rehearsed words. “It spread too quickly.”

“No.” It came out as a croak. “No, no.”

“Anduin, son, I'm sorry.”

“Let me see it.”

Varian hesitated, but then he let go of Anduin's shoulder, stood, and offered his hand. Anduin ignored it. He swung his legs to the side, braced his feet on the floor, then stood, withholding a grimace. The covers sloughed off.

Varian dropped his hand. Anduin moved past him. His limp was pronounced, but he ignored it like he'd ignored his father. The Vale. The Vale was all he wanted to see. His heart beat hard as he neared the silent windows.

And then he was before them. He took a deep breath and grabbed each curtains with both of his hands, curling the fabric in-between his fingers.

Another deep breath.

He yanked open the curtains. Light flooded into the room.

The light was not the golden light of the Vale – it was instead a graying, crystalline light that reminded him of the metal on the warships.

And where the Vale once stood was now a smoldering burn with a suffering like the Dead Scar.

The plains had been burned of their golden grass and now roiled with an endless scorch-mark of black and gray, and the trees were warped, twisted husks. The pools were pits; no glimmer of the blessed water remained. Even the very pagoda that Garrosh had tossed the Heart through was demolished. In its stead floated a collection of massive Sha-crystals, milky-white and glowing.

Anduin stared at it all.

And then he cried out and punched the window.

It didn't shatter. His fist only _thunked_ solidly upon the glass, and Anduin hardly felt the pain in his knuckles, for the sudden ice in his chest, in his gut, in his heart, was all-consuming. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the window pane, and the glass was cool against his skin.

He felt Varian grab his shoulder again, and received no comfort from his father's grip.

“This should never have happened,” Anduin croaked. “I promised Xuen – I promised...”

He'd said peace was possible between the Horde and the Alliance. That they could be responsible when given a blessing like the Vale. Light, he'd tried so hard for the Vale to be opened, and now – now this.

“This is all my fault.”

Varian squeezed his shoulder. Anduin scrunched his eyes up tighter and felt angry tears burn at their corners.

“Son, the Celestials knew what risks they were taking when they opened the Vale,” Varian said, voice gruff. “This isn't your fault. This is Garrosh's fault.”

“But I should have never – I never should have gone to Xuen! They knew what they were doing – they had it closed because something like this _could_ happen!” Anduin straightened and opened his eyes, and the two lonely tears fell down his cheeks. He glared at the devastation and gripped hard onto the curtains, still balled up in his right hand. Selfish – so selfish. He'd wanted so badly to see what was inside like a child. He'd wanted so badly to study the pools. He'd wanted so many things and now here he saw the consequences of his actions: an ancient paradise burnt to a crater.

“Anduin, listen to me. If you hadn't convinced the Celestials to open this place, someone else would have. Or someone would have _forced_ it open. I don't hold that against Garrosh. If he wanted to get into this place, there wouldn't have been a lot stopping him.” He pulled Anduin back, and Anduin, too dazed and angry and upset to move from his father's hold, let himself be moved. Varian turned him so he was facing him. “I know how important this place was to you. But you can't blame yourself for what someone else did.”

Anduin hesitated. He let go of the curtains and rubbed angrily at his face. Maybe his father was right. He huffed. Yes, speaking of selfishness! The Vale was gone, and all he could so was put pity on himself by _blaming_ himself...

“How many are dead?” he asked, trying to change the subject to something else he needed answered. This time, Varian was the one to hesitate.

“We don't have exact numbers,” he said. “We haven't been able to get many people down to the Vale to retrieve bodies. There's Sha energies everywhere; a couple people were corrupted when they tried to go into the remains of the valley.” The king sighed. “But most of the Golden Lotus is gone. I'm sorry, Anduin.”

Anduin sucked in a breath. He felt like he'd known that – he'd seen the statue fall atop their pagoda, seen the scourge sweep over their lines of defense – but hearing it was different. They were his good friends, ones he'd made when he'd first got into the Vale, far before the Alliance fleet landed on Pandaria. They'd studied the pools together, they'd...

He tried not to cry. He was the prince, and he'd already cried once; he shouldn't cry again.

But it was hard.

Varian must have seen it in his face, for the king pulled him in for a hug and Anduin let him. He made a low noise – a withheld sob, stuttering in his throat – and leaned his forehead against his father's chest.

Varian said nothing. He didn't have to. Anduin was grateful for the silence. If his father had started speaking, he might cry for sure.

After a moment, Anduin pulled away. The anger was a dull, sad ache in his chest now. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. It was difficult to stem the the pain; the destruction of the Vale now felt like a brand upon his inner-eye, dark and leeching.

But he must. He must stem it. He was the Prince; his feelings came last. He had to focus on what was to come with a steady heart.

“What happened after I blacked out?” Anduin asked.

Varian sighed. “Garrosh pulled up the heart from the pools,” he explained, voice grim and low and angry. “He's retreated back into Orgrimmar. The mantid followed him.”

Anduin stared at him. His father's words felt as if they were coming in punched increments, only half-understood.

“The mantid?” Anduin repeated. Varian nodded.

“They swarmed over the Wall during the explosion.” Varian shook his head. “The Shado-pan were overrun by the chaos. They couldn't stop them.”

The mantid... of course. He'd heard they were followers of the Old Gods. Who had told him that? Anduin looked out at the window and at the darkness.

“You saved a lot of lives, Anduin,” Varian said. Anduin looked back at him, uncomprehending. He'd done nothing. He couldn't even walk down the stairs during the battle. “When you shielded the balcony. A dozen people lived through that.”

Anduin frowned. He could have done a lot more if he'd been stronger.

He looked at the Vale again. He felt cold and dull, now. Even the pain was growing weaker. He was going into shock but couldn't bring himself to tell his father.

“When will the siege begin?”

Varian shrugged. “Two weeks, I'd guess. We have to transport the troops.”

Anduin glanced at the Big Blossom Dig and felt the stirring of anger.

“I want to be there,” he said, and his voice was a growl.

 

* * *

 

Wrathion dug his claws into the fabric of the kite.

The coast of the Jade Forest grew hazy behind them, and below and stretching miles ahead rippled the Great Sea. They had not been flying for very long, but salt had already begun to collect along Wrathion's scales and at the corners of his eyes. He squinted through the breeze.

“We'll be there soon, my Prince,” Left said. The orc was guiding the kite. Two other kites flew behind them, manned by other Blacktalon agents. Most had stayed behind.

He crouched closer to the taut fabric of the vehicle. After he had decided to leave the Tavern, preparations had been promptly handled: the kites were prepared, the agents given their tasks, and the most trustworthy of them had been chosen to accompany the Prince himself. Left had also received news about the Vale from the only agent stationed there that had survived. The agent had been half-delusional, but Left had managed to get information from her. Garrosh, she'd said, had pulled _Y'Shaarj'_ s still-beating heart from the Big Blossom Dig and had dumped it into the pools. It'd resulted in a massive, blackened explosion like the one Wrathion had seen in his vision. The Vale now stood as a smoking epicenter.

“How do you know it's His heart?” Left had asked.

“It speaks.” And the rogue had disconnected.

Wrathion had been withdrawn and distracted when Left had delivered the information; he felt as if he knew it before she'd told him. Now, he just wanted to get to the isle as fast as possible. Separate himself from the mainland – and from _It_ – until this all blew over.

Wrathion was trying to doze on the kite – something not easily down with the buoying of the wind – when he saw through the slit of his eyes a foggy coastline appear from the line of the horizon. He opened his eyes and squinted through the salty air.

“The island?” he asked. Left shrugged.

“I would think so, my Prince.”

They glided closer. It began to look like a hunk of the Jade Forest: green, bright, soft with foliage and hilled with tall, thin mounds of verdant rock and cliff.

“Hold on,” Left said. Wrathion grunted; he already was.

And then the wind rocked and writhed around them. The kite bounced like a bucking horse. Wrathion gripped on so hard that his claws punctured through the fabric and his wings flapped up and down with the wild swaying.

It stopped as suddenly as it began. Wrathion opened one eye, not realizing he'd closed them during the sudden typhoon. The Timeless Isle spread before them, a map of green and overgrown ivy and stone.

“The wind barrier,” he muttered. He remembered his agents mentioning something about it in their sprawling report. He relaxed, but found his claws were stuck to the kite. He tried to discreetly pull them out as Left began to glide them to the sandy coast for a landing, but they didn't budge.

Landing a kite was more difficult than landing a gryphon or wyvern; kites didn't have minds of their own and couldn't simply stop flying and flutter down with grace. Maybe it was good that his claws were stuck for the landing so he wouldn't careen off the blasted thing when they fell.

Left crouched as the sand swept up to them, then pulled back sharply on the horn at the front of the kite. The kite bucked back and slowed, and at the last possible moment, the orc jumped from it and landed on her feet, hand still on the horn. She braced her feet in the sand and then managed to turn and pull the vehicle with her, and it slid to the ground with only a couple of bumps.

Wrathion, hunkered down against the kite, straightened up once it'd stilled. “Excellent landing, Left,” he muttered, then, baring his teeth, pulled his claws back. They popped out of the fabric, though pieces of red string remained tangled around some of his talons. He huffed, hopped off the kite, then, frowning at how he sank into the sand, shifted into his human form. He brushed himself off. The other two kites landed behind them.

He looked around and rubbed his hands together. Lush, green, and decidedly humid, the Timeless Isle looked like an extension of the Jade Forest, as if it were a shard that had split off from the coast in some quake. But despite the familiar scents of earthy rain and foliage, there was another, wispy but striking. It reminded Wrathion of stepping into an old building: must and sand and rusting metal.

A couple of large green turtles, forests of algae growing their backs, languished near the rocky part of the shore a little farther up. They glanced dully at the newcomers and the sand was kicked up with strangers' footsteps. Echoing bird calls cried from far above, and Wrathion looked up. Enormous albatrosses circled at the tops of the hills that towered around them.

“It doesn't seem very – magical,” Wrathion said. It looked like a regular island. Except for that odd smell, nothing seemed... _off_. He glanced behind his shoulder. Left and the four other agents were tying the kites up. They'd brought some camping supplies, but Wrathion figured they would be worthless; Kairoz and the Timewalkers were said to be here. Surely they had a camp.

“Leave them,” Wrathion said. “Let's make our way, yes?”

He turned and walked through the sand. His feet sank into the sand as he headed to the end of the beach, where the beach gave way to short, rocky dunes and then grass.

He didn't get three feet until a flurry of wings curved around the bend of the closest hill, and a giant bronze dragon sailed into view.

Wrathion stopped. He heard Left and the others grab their weapons, metal clinking. The dragon hovered, wings beating back and forth; a whirl of sand scattered around each flurry of air.

It landed before Wrathion atop the rock-dunes and folded its wings. Three horns flanked each side of its head, and its eyes were a distinct blood-blue.

It shifted. The smoke cleared, and there stood Kairoz, robes bright white and shining in the sun.

Wrathion straightened in surprise. “And here I was _just_ thinking about you,” he said. “I didn't think Bronze Dragons could read minds.”

Kairoz chuckled. “No. Not quite,” he said, then bowed his head in greeting. “I saw your kites descend; there's not many that wear such a similar array of clothing as you and your agents do, Prince Wrathion.”

“No. I guess not,” Wrathion said. “So, ah -?”

“I'm pleased you finally made it, at least,” Kairoz interrupted smoothly. “I had heard what happened at the Vale.” He shook his head. “I suspect many others will be following your lead.”

“I wasn't running, if that's what you're implying.”

“No, no. I meant no disrespect.” Kairoz nodded back to the Isle. “But people will hear. They will come, rather than stay and see their failures.” He looked back at Wrathion with a sudden, intent expression that caught the prince off-guard. “I can show you around the island.”

“Yes. That'd be … welcome,” Wrathion replied. He wondered. He hadn't seen Kairoz flying during their descent on the kites, and yet the bronze had said he'd seen them during his own flight. Curious. He shrugged it off. Coincidence, nothing more.

\---

Kairoz showed them the most important parts of the island: they visited shrines, an abandoned town, a raised peninsula to the west where a small section of yaungol prayed and Wrathion learned of their fire god, Ordos.

“He is _on_ the island?” Wrathion asked. They were headed to the Celestial Court, which Kairoz had said was the center of activity at the island, and somewhere he had an item he wanted to show Wrathion.

“Yes, but he appears sporadically,” Kairoz said. “He does not appear often; we believe he is summoned by the yaungol, but he cannot stay in the physical plane for long.”

Wrathion glanced up at the shadowy peninsula. “Have you seen him?”

“Once.” Kairoz glanced at him sidelong. “Larger than a dragon, set ablaze with smoldering flesh and coat.” He turned away. Wrathion followed his gaze. The overgrown path was thinning beneath their feet, revealing worn, sliced rock. It snaked through the taller grass and led toward a yaungolian arch far-off. “The Celestials are bothered by his presence, but they have not taken action yet.”

Wrathion stuttered in his step. “The Celestials?”

Kairoz smiled. “It is called the Celestial Court for a reason, young prince,” he said. “But they have just arrived as you have.”

They passed through the arch and into an open arena, the center of which was sunken a few feet into the ground. Mortals milled around, talking in constrained conversations. Vendors had set up shop around the outer ring. The smell of cooking food hooked at Wrathion's attention, but it was quickly overshadowed when he saw the Celestials.

He slowed his walk. At each corner, standing in front of a column with their respective visages, were the great spirits of Pandaria. Closest to him were Chi-ji, to the left, and Xuen, to the right. Yu'lon and Niuzao were at the other far sides.

Wrathion made a low noise. He hadn't seen the Celestials since his trials, and had left them with a bad taste in his mouth. Xuen and Yu'lon had both blindfolded him and let his champions beat on him – and Niuzao and Chi-ji had sent a vision of his own _father_ against him.

He was still bitter.

“Why are they here?” Wrathion asked. Kairoz slowed to a stop. Some mortals close by glanced at them, but they were not his champions, so Wrathion ignored their vaguely hostile looks.

“To challenge,” Kairoz said.

“Challenge who?”

“Anyone who wishes to test themselves.” Wrathion flinched; Xuen had spoken, and the great White Tiger turned to look at him. His white eyes glowed like molten iron. “I had hoped to see you here, young prince.”

“Did you.” Wrathion rolled his shoulders back. “Well, here I am.” He forced a smile.

One of Xuen's ears twitched.

“You have healed,” Niuzao said. The low voice of the Black Ox felt like a vibration in his chest, even with the Celestial on the other side of the arena.

Wrathion stared at him, unsure if the Celestial was making a weak joke. He still had his arm in a sling and his nose was vaguely purple from where Samia had cracked him in the face.

“From my trials, yes,” Wrathion said slowly, and Niuzao grunted and shook out his shaggy head. He said nothing more, and Chi-ji and Yu'lon only gave Wratihon sympathetic glances and remained quiet, much to his thanks.

He glanced again at Kairoz. The bronze was fiddling with something shiny, black, and oval in his hand, but at Wrathion's look, the little piece vanished in his grip. “Well? What was this item you were talking about?”

“Ah. Yes.” Kairoz turned and walked to a low-standing stone table to their left. Wrathion followed.

In the center of the table stood a large hourglass. It was empty of sand and the glass was so shined that it seemed to glow as it reflected the unmoving sun's light, and curled around it were two bronze dragons, eyes made of rubies.

“I call it the Vision of Time,” Kairoz said, and placed his hand atop the hourglass.

“Fascinating,” Wrathion said, blandly. “And it's empty.”

Kairoz smiled. He looked at Wrathion. “For now,” he said. “With the mortals finally arriving, I'll be able to collect far more Epoch Stones to fuel the Hourglass.”

“Epoch Stones.”

“Yes. Very curious objects. They are rare in the Caverns of Time, but here? They are rather plentiful. Think of them as growths, or tumors – the concentrated deposit of magic in this place. They manifest in the ground, the animals, the plants... and once crushed, they act as the sand for the Hourglass. I have tried it once. The Stones are powerful, but burn up with each activation. I'll need many of them to sustain the Glass.”

Wrathion glanced at the bronze dragons of the hourglass. “And what does it _do_ , exactly?”

Kairoz took his hand off the top. “Once I have enough Stones, I'll show you.”

Wrathion huffed, but he remained staring at the Vision of Time for a moment more with a hungry look. Perhaps he could use these Epoch Stones for his champions' cloaks? Yes, that might do them well.

“Thank you for the tour,” Wrathion drawled. “I need to think. Plan, if you will.”

Kairoz bowed his head. His long blond hair fell around his face. “I'll leave you be, Prince Wrathion,” he said, and straightened. “If you need any more assistance, please do not hesitate to ask.”

* * *

\---

Two days passed.

Anduin stood at the archway that led out to the patio of the Shrine of Seven Stars – the one that overlooked the Vale. The remaining Golden Lotus, aided by the Shado-pan, had forbade anyone from going outside. The Sha energies Varian had mentioned remained, and no one wanted a repeat of when the Alliance had brought in the Sha-claw and it had infested people inside the Shrine.

Today, it was deemed that the energies had dulled to a safe level. They were allowed outside. Anduin, who hadn't slept, was one of the first to stand at the archway and be let through. He'd tried to leave, yesterday, but the Golden Lotus had denied even him.

He was only one of a handful of people waiting to be let out. There must have only been ten or so, mingling quietly near the archway. They gave him a wide berth, even though Anduin had dismissed his guards. He'd wanted to be alone for this.

The Golden Lotus guard at the front of the archway, blocking the way with his great girth, looked behind his shoulder, nodded at someone unseen, then moved away. He looked at Anduin, then, and Anduin looked at him. The pandaren flicked his ears and frowned.

He nodded.

Anduin braced himself.

He walked outside.

It was colder, dreary. He felt no sun on his face. He looked up and saw it struggling to shine through the coalesced gray clouds.

He'd watched the Vale outside of the windows for hours, only pulled away from it when he was called for food. His father had been watching him like a hawk. Anduin knew he was waiting for him to snap, or to try to run away, or leave, or _something_.

But Anduin hadn't. He'd felt a dullness that hadn't lifted as the days had gone by. He'd cried himself to sleep the first night, yes, but the second night, he'd stared blankly at the ceiling until the sun had come up.

The loss of the Vale was a pit in his chest and in his spirit, until even his anger at Garrosh felt like a hollow pinging.

Some greater emotion rose again in his chest as he looked at the Vale now. It had seemed like some enchanted vision, some false image, when he'd been looking through the window. Like he could think it was fake. But now, among the cold sun and clouds, among the silence, he saw the truth of it. Felt it. There was a heaviness to the air that pushed on his shoulders – the Sha.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He imprinted the darkness upon his mind. He had to remember this. Remember the pain of losing.

“Damn shame.”

Anduin opened his eyes and turned. Admiral Taylor came to stand at his side, arms crossed. He was looking at the Vale.

“Yeah.” He looked out at the destruction again. “It is.”

They stood in a comfortable silence for a time. Not many others joined them outside. Then again, not many remained in the Shrine to begin with. Those that hadn't stayed behind for relief efforts had gone to the Barrens to help with the siege, or to some new, strange island Anduin had only heard a bit about: the Timeless Isle.

“I didn't know you were here, Admiral,” Anduin said. Taylor glanced at him sidelong.

“Just arrived from Lion's Landing yesterday,” he said. He rolled his shoulders back and his pauldrons clinked noisily. “Waiting for the king's orders.”

Anduin nodded. “You'll be taking part in the siege, then?”

“Mhm. I'm the Admiral of the Lion's Fleet, prince.”

Anduin snorted softly. “I know. Forgive me, I'd forgotten.”

“Glad to hear you'll be there,” the Admiral said, and Anduin frowned at him. “Your father told me. Surprised me, really. Didn't think he'd let you go.”

“You're glad I'll be there?” Anduin repeated. “It... seems like you'd be the opposite.”

Taylor huffed. “Boy, I chased you around an uncharted continent for months. But you found this place. Helped a lot of people. Now Garrosh has done – this.” He looked at Anduin with his perpetual scowl, but he softened for an almost imperceptible moment. “You deserve to be at the siege more than any of us, I'd think.”

Anduin smiled slightly. “Thanks, Taylor.” He paused. “I'm sorry for what I put you through, all those months ago.”

Taylor snorted. “So am I, boy,” he said. “But we got a good adventure out of it, didn't we? Sailors love to hear all about it.” He spoke blandly, like he was trying to find _some_ good that came out of it. Anduin felt a little guilty, but at least they'd both survived – as had all of the SI:7 that had come to find him.

Two adventurers, a human and a dwarf, passed by them. The human nodded to Anduin, and he smiled back. He watched them disappear down the stairs.

“The Golden Lotus will be doing some relief efforts near the western river,” Anduin said. Thankfully, the scourge that had rippled across the Vale had lost steam after the destruction of the statues, and hadn't devoured the _enitre_ Vale; it'd stopped near the river-banks leading up to Mistfall Village. “I was planning on going down there and helping until it's time to leave.”

“About that.”

Anduin glanced at Taylor. The man shifted his weight from side to side. His cloak swayed.

“You hear about the Timeless Isle?” Taylor asked. Anduin shrugged.

“A little. I know a lot of adventurers had headed over there. It's near the Jade Forest?”

“Yeah. Right off the coast,” Taylor said. “Some strange time anomaly's there. It just appeared from the mists, they say. And time just doesn't move.”

“So it's – frozen?”

“No. I mean time doesn't move. Sun doesn't shift. Other magical stuff there, but I'll be damned if I understand any of it.” Taylor shrugged largely, then scratched at the side of his nose. “We sent a couple of our agents there, but haven't gotten a lot of information back on the subject.”

Anduin frowned. Had it been before the Vale's destruction, he would have been asking so many more questions, been far too invested in learning about this new place. Now he just felt a dull interest in comparison. He still wasn't “over” what had happened, here; he knew it would take a long time for him to heal. Maybe as long as it took the Vale to.

But he stared at Taylor, and his frown deepened.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked. Taylor wasn't the sort to bring up things randomly. The man was tactful and to-the-point. Everything had a reason for being said.

Taylor sighed. It sounded like a low groan coming from his mouth. “Your father wants you to go there.”

Anduin stared.

“What?”

Taylor turned to him. “He wants you to explore it. A little. In safe increments.”

“My _father_ wants me to explore a new, strange place,” Anduin said, bluntly. He furrowed his brows, thought that over, then said: “I'm going to the siege.”

“I know. You'll be there. It's just the king wants you to be – ugh – not here.” Taylor threw up his hands in the air in a frustrated swing. “He just doesn't want you to be around the Vale right now. Light knows what's really down there,” he said, then gestured to the valley. “Sha are crawling everywhere, and -”

“I purged the Sha of Despair from the Temple of the Red Crane,” Anduin interrupted. “I can handle Sha. And I can help with the corruption here until the siege!”

Taylor huffed. A low thrumming sounded from the valley and echoed off. It reminded him of the groaning of a ship's wood. They glanced down, but nothing moved save for small, wiggling splots of black Anduin knew were lesser Sha.

“Your father wants you _safe_ until the siege,” Taylor said, turning again to Anduin. “No meddling with Sha, or any of this business. Can't blame him. I'm surprised he isn't shipping you off to Stormwind.”

Anduin set his lips in a thin line and glared out at the Vale, unseeing. He'd been waiting these past two days to go out and _help_ , and he was immediately being ushered away! He shook his head. He should have known that his father's agreement that he could come to the siege would come with a price.

But, as Taylor had said, he wasn't being packed off to Stormwind...

“I'll be coming with you,” Taylor said.

“What? Really?”

Taylor grunted. “The king thought it'd be appropriate,” he said.

Anduin had to smile at that. Poetic, he thought. Taylor and he had started all of this, hadn't they? It felt like so long ago they'd crashed on the shore...

But his smile left too quickly. He glanced out at the statues, at where the upper half of the left mogu had fallen and crushed the pagoda. Maybe if he was in a better mood he could argue this. Or just go down to the Village himself on his gryphon, like he'd done when he'd snuck out to Right's funeral.

He could do a lot of things. But he just didn't have the energy or spirit.

He lowered his shoulders. Maybe it'd be best if he walked away for a while.

“Fine,” he sighed. “When do we leave?”

“Tonight,” Taylor said, and he looked vaguely relieved. Surely he expected Anduin to argue, too. “Get some supplies ready.”

* * *

 

Wrathion wasn't sure how much time had passed.

It might have been a day, or two, or twelve. The information he'd picked up from Kairoz, and from his agents, seemed to all prove true: the island had no aspect of time. The sun didn't move. The temperature stayed the same. Even the shoreline remained stagnant; the current and tide never changed.

At least news from beyond the island was quick to filter in as more mortals had come to the island. Wrathion, of course, had his connection to his agents that had remained on the mainland, but nothing was quite like getting rumors from the wyvern's mouth, as it were.

He both did and did not want to hear about Y'shaarj, or what was suspected to be Y'shaarj. One part of him wanted to know. He was the Black Prince, and needed to remain informed. The other part was Wrathion, who didn't want to remember – or think about – the voice he'd heard when the Vale had imploded, or when he'd been consumed by the Sha, which seemed like so long ago.

His professionalism won against his cowardice, in the end. Some of his champions who had been at the Vale told him about the heart. They also told him about the mantid, and the Klaxxi. One particular human delivered the latter news with a drawn, dark expression, and Wrathion realized this mortal must have been one of the few to befriend the mantid in the Dread Wastes. What did the human expect to happen, making friends with Old God servants?

He'd also decided to put the Dragonmaw on “the back-burner,” as mortals would say. The Vale business, and the upcoming siege, came first, and he hadn't yet heard anything about how the Dragonmaw – or the black dragons they had – had fared during the implosion. If Samia and Vaxian were in the epicenter of Old God corruption... well. Wrathion could only guess what could have happened to them.

But he'd find out soon enough once things settled down.

He'd gotten his hands on a couple of Epoch Stones, too. With Kairoz's suggestion, he crushed the rocks and played around with the magic within them. He was surprised by their potency; he thought the Bronze had been trying to impress him, but Kairoz had not been exaggerating.

He was busy trying to figure out how to use his earth magic to push the crushed sand of the Epoch Stones into fabric when Left, standing behind him as always, made a low noise to catch his attention.

Wrathion looked up from the test fabric. He was sitting at the same stone table, but the Vision of Time had since been moved and Kairoz was busy taking a fly-over of the upper yaungol terrace. The crowd had since doubled in population at the Celestial Court, and more merchants had set up. Conversation bubbled. Most gave the stone table a wide berth – mostly because of Left's scalding glances whenever they grew too close.

“What, Left?” Wrathion glanced back at her, and the orc, staring intently ahead, nodded forward. He followed her gaze and squinted through the crowd.

Oh.

Coming toward him were two Alliance guardsmen; the crowd parted for them. At the side was Admiral Taylor, his face in a scowl, and he saw Wrathion at nearly the same moment Wrathion saw him. The admiral's scowl deepened, but he glanced to the side at someone behind the guards.

The guards' formation split enough at the middle for just a moment, but a moment long enough that Wrathion saw Anduin Wrynn walking behind them – and Anduin saw him. The Prince of Stormwind's face hardened as their eyes met, and then the guards' walked closer together again and blocked the prince from view.

Even still, they approached the table, and when the group grew close, the guards split away and positioned themselves at Anduin's sides. Admiral Taylor's scowl had magnified to intense levels, and he didn't take his eyes off of Wrathion.

The Black Prince ignored him.

He stared at Anduin. Anduin stared at him.

The blond prince looked pale. His eyes were drawn, his hair brittle. He even looked thinner. Despite his frail appearance, his eyes had the impassive anger of a far-off storm.

“I didn't expect you to be here, Prince Anduin,” Wrathion said. He surprised himself with how smooth his voice sounded. Oh, he remembered too well how they had left each other, the last time they'd been together – and it looked like Anduin did, too.

“I didn't expect to be here, either,” Anduin said with a little coldness.

Silence. They stared at each other.

Wrathion swallowed and stood from his seat at the table. “Can I offer you a seat? I'm sure -”

“I'm fine,” Anduin said. The Prince of Stormwind watched him with that same impassive anger. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, well, I was rather interested in studying the properties of this island,” Wrathion said, trying not to trip over his words as Anduin stared at him. And it wasn't quite a lie. He nodded to the test fabric, sprinkled over with the glinting silver dust. “It's so fascinating, my Prince -”

“Don't call me that.”

Wrathion hesitated. “My apologies,” he said. He needed to get a hold of himself. “Prince Anduin.”

Anduin nodded slightly, but the blond prince frowned and looked Wrathion up and down. Surely he saw the healing, broken nose, or how Left favored her right side behind him. He was perceptive like that.

The blond softened a little.

“How are you?” Anduin asked, then, and Wrathion relaxed.

“Fine,” Wrathion said. “And I suppose you're – doing well?”

“You heard about the Vale, didn't you?”

“Yes. I did,” Wrathion said. He cleared his throat. No wonder Anduin looked like a walking wreck. Of course the Vale's destruction would hit him so hard. “It's... a great tragedy.”

Anduin sighed.

Silence descended on them again. Wrathion felt as if they were in their own little bubble, separated from the bustle of the crowd around. Even the merchant cries sounded vague and indistinct.

“Prince Anduin, perhaps we could talk?” Wrathion eyed Taylor. “Alone.”

Taylor glared at him.

“Boy,” Taylor said, “I don't think -”

“It's okay, Admiral,” Anduin said. “Not right now, Wrathion. Later. I'd like to look around first.”

“Oh. Of course! It's quite a spectacle,” Wrathion said.

Anduin glanced sidelong at the Celestials, and his gaze lingered on Chi-ji. The Crane must have sensed the boy's gaze, for he looked over and bowed his head to the prince. Anduin smiled – a real smile – in response, then nodded and looked away.

“I can see that,” Anduin said, and he watched Wrathion for a moment more before he backed away from the table. “If you'll excuse us.”

“Uh – yes.”

Anduin nodded, and again his face became flat and impassive. He and his entourage walked past the table, though Taylor gave Wrathion a lingering, warning glare before they disappeared into the crowd.

Wrathion put a hand on his face and groaned.

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [[ My apologies for the slow update. Life has been a little hectic as of late! I got a request for a recap, and, while it's not up to date (I think it covers up to 24ish) I do have a timeline on my blog at the very bottom -- http://baron-sablemane.tumblr.com/encyclopedia ]]

 “You are sure about this?” Rexxar asked.

They'd been speaking in the cave since Sabellian had come back with news that Wrathion was coming to the island. He didn't know how long it had been. Hours? A day? It was difficult to tell in this place.

“Yes,” Sabellian said. “If I was not, I wouldn't have suggested the idea.”

Over his usual attire, he'd thrown on a dark brown, ratty cloak to hide the bright orange and reds of his robe – as well as to hide his face. Though he didn't yet pull the hood over his head, he didn't want any knowing eyes recognizing him when he went to the Celestial Court.

Rexxar grunted. Arms crossed over his chest, he gave a slow nod. “Misha and I will wait by the borders, then,” he said with some reluctance. At the back of the cave, Nasandria watched. It had taken some time for her to agree to this plan of action, and though she had, she was still sullen.

“We'll meet there,” Sabellian said. He pulled the hood on and blinked his eyes, and the orange flushed into the dark hazel of his disguise. “Don't be seen, half-orc. You're more recognizable than I.”

Rexxar grunted again.

No time to waste. They all knew what to do. Sabellian turned and left the cave, squinting as he met the sunlight.

He knew the way to the Court, and quickly began over. He ignored the giant pink cranes watching him from the shadows of the trees. Stupid birds. Sabellian must have eaten a dozen during his time here, and they still didn't know a better place to hide than the trees.

Soon, the Court fuzzed into view. Sabellian scowled as he saw the large crowd of mortals lingering. So many had come in such a short amount of time. He doubted it was only because of the Vale, and had to do more with the amount of shiny baubles mortals were so obsessed with.

And then he saw the Celestials.

He immediately picked out Xuen, but noted the three others: a green cloud serpent, a red crane, and a giant ox. Sabellian had learned their names from Rexxar, of all people; the half-orc was somehow learned in the animal ancients here, though the dragon hadn't pressed him on how. He guessed it had something to do with Misha. The bear was a spirit beast, and she and Rexxar had an odd understanding of one another.

He'd learned that the Celestials had come to the island when he had been on his way to tell Rexxar and Nasandria of Wrathion's impending arrival. It'd frustrated him, at first, but their appearance had later sparked the plan he'd set into motion.

Sabellian shifted his hood a little as he neared the Court. The smell of cooking food, spice, and magic permeated the air. That, and the stench of mortals. He wrinkled his noise as he joined the fray. At least there was enough room around the Court where the crowd wasn't bunched up together; he had ample room to himself to walk.

Odd, that the Celestials were sitting right in the middle of the arena. Though he'd known they had come, he did not know why. They didn't speak; they only watched the crowd with casual, calm glances.

He took a deep breath, then exhaled harshly. One favor to ask of them.

Sabellian did not like asking for favors.

To the north, he saw stairs leading down to the arena. He made his way there, trying not to force himself through lingering mortals, lest he draw attention to himself. Who knew if the boy already had a dozen agents watching?

He paused before the stairs. Was he allowed to go into the arena? He drew back and waited. It took a moment, but a couple of mortals descended the stairs and headed over to Chi-ji. Sabellian watched them with narrowed eyes.

They were speaking to the crane. The dragon couldn't hear their words, but it almost looked as if the Celestial was giving advice.

Good, then. This was a normal occurrence.

He glanced at Xuen. The tiger was watching the mortals who had gone to Chi-ji.

Sabellian drew himself up and went down the stairs. He made his way to the White Tiger.

“Son of Earth,” greeted Xuen as the dragon grew close. Sabellian flinched. He glanced up behind the cowl of his hood. The Tiger remained staring forward. “What do you want of me?”

Sabellian shifted his weight and looked down. He made a furtive glance around, but no one was paying them any heed. Just like he'd hoped.

“I've come for a favor.”

One of Xuen's ears twitched. Was that a smile on the tiger's blackened lips, or was that just the normal curve of his mouth? “I know,” Xuen rumbled. He spoke quietly, but even then his voice was like a quiet thunder in Sabellian's chest. “I ask again: what do you want of me?”

Easier than he expected. Too easy, perhaps. He eyed the Tiger, who had not yet even spared him a glance. The crowd buzzed. “Wrathion has come to the island.”

“Yes.”

Sabellian paused. He had not rehearsed the words, but they came naturally. “I no longer wish to play games,” he explained. “Nor do I have the time for them. My children are in a more immediate danger than the whelp.”

“I see.”

Short responses but thoughtful in tone. Sabellian found it annoying. Must the Tiger be so arrogant in his all-knowing glow? “You said before that the boy didn't understand your lesson,” he said. “You gave him a trial.”

“Yes.” Xuen swished his tail.

“What constitutes the – giving of such trials?”

Xuen looked at him. The eyes of the Tiger were ancient, timeless, older than Sabellian himself. And that hardly happened often.

“A trial is given when I deem it right,” Xuen said. “A test of strength.”

“You could give it again?”

Xuen studied him. It felt as if those molten eyes were laying bare to his own soul, unraveling it, reading it like a crinkled map.

“You have thought of what I told you,” Xuen finally said.

“I had nothing else to do on this blasted island.”

Yes – there was a smile from the Tiger.

“Tell me,” Xuen began, “what you plan with the Prince. Will it be justice, or vengeance?”

Ryxia's body splayed against the prey cave, the coil of intestines spilling from her gut.

Talsian's raving. How easily his neck had snapped underneath Sabellian's own bite.

The harpoons in his side. The electricity popping. The itch of whispers.

Blade's Edge poisoned, his brood attacked in their own home. Threats, smug glances.

The dagger in his gut.

_I am better than that._

“Killing him would be too simple,” Sabellian said quietly. When he had heard Wrathion was coming to the island, he'd given himself time to think - and let himself realize what he'd been mulling over and pushing away when on his flights around the island.

He understood. Begrudgingly, bitterly, but he did.

“Taking his life would do nothing but give me some bloody satisfaction. Like before.” Burning buildings, screaming mortals, the rush of corrupted adrenaline at their cries. “I... I am not like that anymore.”

He had killed the Gronn. Slaughtered them. But that had been different, hadn't it? They had been there, been killing his children, made them shiver in their caves when they stomped and sloughed through the valley. Made them suffer.

Wrathion had made them suffer too. But he wasn't an animal; he wasn't as stupid as a Gronn. He had killed the Gronn to protect his family, for it was needed. There had been no other way. The Gronn were ruthless. They wouldn't learn. They would never know guilt or peace or justice. Just blood and death.

But Wrathion could live and realize his mistakes, if Sabellian was lucky. Live, and suffer. And if he did not learn of his failings - he was a beacon for the mortals, and Sabellian would cut their trust of him down in front of them all on a grander scale than before.

Sabellian would ruin him.

“I will not be the killer I was,” he said. “I will not be like the boy.” He took a breath. “But he will pay. Not with his life, but with everything else he has to give. It will be justice. And he will have to live with what he has done for the rest of his life.”

He looked up at Xuen when no more words came to him.

The Tiger did nothing for a long moment. The air grew still around him.

And then, finally, blessedly, Xuen nodded.

“And so you become Strength,” the Tiger said. He rumbled. “Long ago, I spoke to one like you. Full of anger. It blinded him and made him weak. He learned what his anger could wrought, and so set it aside and made his Power into Strength.”

Attacking the Temple. Innocents slaughtered. Sabellian had tried not to think of it much.

“Yes. I see the same in you,” Xuen said. He nodded. “You have my blessing. Now. Tell me what you wish to do.”

And Sabellian did.

* * *

 

The island was a wonder.

Anduin had thought that Pandaria had shown him all of its marvels, but not quite, it seemed. He relaxed at the sole stone table at the Celestial Court, finishing a cup of lavender tea given to him free of charge from one of the merchants.

It was true, what they'd said: time didn't move here, and he had yet to see the sun even shift an inch. Anduin was both amazed by it, and unnerved, the latter no doubt caused by his inner clock. Unnatural, but beautiful. And the whole island was like that.

The oxen, for example, were the size of mushan. The cranes, brilliant pink but as massive as even the largest tallstrider. Then there were the Yaungol ruins he'd seen, but had not approached, knowing that the Tauren-ancestors were excessively violent. He'd heard of hidden treasures, too, scattered around the island, lost in time.

The wonder had at least distracted him from thinking of the Vale, though he knew that many of the champions here had come to escape that suffering. Even now, Anduin caught slips of conversations about the catastrophe, as much as he tried to block them out. There was a tangible tension in the crowd, but he could see they, too, were trying to become distracted by the island. All of them knew that the siege was looming, and all worried what Garrosh had done with the heart of an Old God.

He sighed and drank the last bit of his tea, catching the loose leaves on his tongue and crunching them between his teeth. His two guards, Melissa and John, stood behind him. They'd been surprisingly casual with him as he'd explored – perhaps orders from his father.

Anduin scanned the crowd. Admiral Taylor had gone to get food, and -

Anduin's good mood faded.

Wrathion was coming toward him.

The Black Prince walked stiffly, his arms held flat at his sides, his shoulders set strictly. Anduin had noticed that about the dragon before, when he'd first seen him at the Celestial Court. Wrathion's air of casual omnipotence had been overlaid with a hardened anxiety. It may not have been obvious to all, but Anduin knew the Black Prince well enough to realize something was wrong.

But something was always wrong. Anduin darkened further still. Maybe this was still the same Wrathion who had spoken so coldly to him, who had shut him away, who had all but called him a coward and a fool.

“Prince Anduin,” Wrathion greeted when he was close. His voice was strained. Anduin hesitated. No coldness there. Just anxiousness. “How are you enjoying the island?”

“It's incredible,” Anduin said, deciding on honesty. “I've never seen anything like it.”

Wrathion relaxed. It was minimal, but Anduin saw it in the loosening of his shoulders and the low breath of air he exhaled. “I don't think anyone ever has, my – ah, Prince Anduin. Or only the Bronze.”

“Yes. I've seen a couple of them,” Anduin said. One had been Chromie, who had greeted him with excited smiles. “I believe the High Elf you've been with is one, too?”

Wrathon hesitated, then smiled almost nervously. “Kairoz? Yes. He's very obvious about it, isn't he? I suppose there's no harm in it.”

Anduin thought Kairoz seemed well-meaning. He'd only seen the dragon once, but the Bronze had only given him a passing look, as he'd been too enraptured with a large hourglass. He wanted to ask what that was about. Maybe later.

Wrathion stared at him. Anduin raised an eyebrow.

“Did you need something?”

Wrathion started. Behind him, Left shook her head. “Oh! Well. Now that you've seen the island, I was wondering if, ah, we might speak in private?”

Anduin smiled. “Private meaning you, me, and Left.”

“That's _very_ private!”

“And what about my guards?”

Wrathion tilted his head. “Why would you ever need guards?”

“The same reason you need them,” Anduin said, but sighed. Honestly, it'd be nicer if he didn't have guards, but that was beside the point. “Okay. We can talk.”

“I knew you'd come around.” Wrathion glanced back at the Stormwind guards, then back at Anduin. Very discrete. Anduin sighed and glanced to his left, where Melissa stood at attention.

“Please allow us a moment,” he said quietly. “I'm sure we won't stray far, and it won't be long.”

Melissa hesitated, then nodded. “As you wish, Prince Anduin.”

He'd expected that to be more difficult. Maybe they did have those orders from Father. That, or Wrathion wasn't considered dangerous. Which Anduin would find hard to believe. He turned back to Wrathion, expectant and wary.

Wrathion grinned, his pointed teeth flush again his lips. “Good. Follow me.”

* * *

 

They ended up going much farther from the Court than Anduin had initially thought.

Wrathion led him up the upper plateau. Anduin knew that the yaungol were often seen in these higher reaches, but the lowest part of the plateau, a scattering of low-built ruins that overlooked the sea to the right and the forest to the left, was empty of them today. A ritual was happening up on the highest reaches, Wrathion had said, at the smoky peninsula to the north of the island. Anduin looked toward it. The smog was as thick as a stormcloud there. It must not see much sunlight.

“Why don't we stand here?” Wrathion said. Anduin looked over. Wrathion had stopped near the left side of the plateau. Beyond it, three top tall pillars built from the forest floor made a sort of make-way path. If Anduin's leg was better, the jump would have been easy to the first pillar.

“As long as you're not planning to push me off,” Anduin said.

Wrathion raised his eyebrows, but stilled to a stop near the drop-off. Anduin joined him. It was perhaps a fifteen foot fall. Below, small blue sprites danced around a tree. Large lumps of blue crystal grew from the trunk. Anduin watched them.

“You were there,” Wrathion said. The Black Prince wasn't looking at him. ”At the Vale, when it happened?”

Anduin nodded and fought to keep his face passive. Any mention of the Vale forced a dull ache in his chest and stomach – a weighty darkness. “Yes,” he said. “I'd rather not talk about it.”

“Might I ask only one question, then?”

Anduin sighed. “Alright.”

“Did you see the heart?”

Anduin looked at him. Wrathion still refused to meet his eyes; the dragon stared up at the higher peninsula.

Of course. Y'sharaaj. He should have known Wrathion would have been worried about the Old God. Briefly, he remembered the Prince's panic during his corruption from the Sha – how he'd heard voices.

“I did,” Anduin said quietly. “I saw Garrosh push it into the pools.” He shuddered, thinking of the pulsating mass of flesh, purple and gray and impossibly large. “That's what destroyed the Vale. It – it sent this scourge across the valley. It killed everything.”

Wrathion frowned. He did not answer immediately, but when he did, his voice was low, thoughtful. “It was feeding off of it.”

Anduin nodded. “That's what I thought too... it must have been taking all the life from the Vale into itself.” He sighed and rubbed one side of his face. “Garrosh took it back to Orgrimmar.”

“So I heard.” Wrathion looked at him. “I'm surprised you are here, Anduin. I had expected you to follow your father to the siege.”

Anduin shrugged. “He thought I should be here until the siege actually begins,” he said.

“Ah. Giving you some freedom?”

“Somewhat.”

Silence stretched between them. Anduin watched the dragon sidelong.

“Wrathion,” Anduin began, “why did you really bring me up here?”

He looked at the other prince. Wrathion set his jaw, his eyes growing thoughtful, calculated.

“I don't know how we should proceed,” he said.

“ _Proceed_?”

“I admit, our last meeting was... unfortunate.” The dragon glanced at him. Anduin wasn't sure what to make of his expression. It seemed to him to be made of stone.

But Anduin found himself glaring back.

“Unfortunate,” he repeated. “I think that's being generous.”

“It is, however, a correct way of describing it.” Wrathion turned and gestured openly to the stretch of land around them. “Admirable, isn't it?”

“Very.” He watched the dragon, frowning. He should have seen that the dragon would have tip-toed around the subject. “And...?”

Wrathion crossed his arms over his chest. He paused. “What are we, Anduin Wrynn?”

He was taken aback by the blatant question. Anduin shifted his grip on his cane. He was acutely aware of Left watching him; he could feel her gaze on the back of his neck.

“I don't know.”

Wrathion glanced sidelong at him with a look that expected him to continue.

Anduin sighed roughly. “Wrathion, we're just - we're too much alike,” he said. Wrathion narrowed his eyes, his mouth a sudden frown.

“I didn't think you would -”

“No. Let me finish.” Anduin took in a slow breath. The air felt green in his chest. “We're too much alike, Wrathion. I think... I mean, I _know_ we have some understanding of one another. We both want the same things, but -” he rubbed at his face. “We're also too _different_. Even if we want the same thing, how we want to go on _doing_ it is like black and white. I think it'd almost be easier if we wanted a different outcome for this world.”

Wrathion studied him.

“Destruction or peace,” the dragon supplied. Anduin nodded.

Then he laughed. It was a weak sound, a rough sound, and it faded quickly. “Knowing we both want the same thing makes it worse when we disagree,” he explained. How difficult it was to put his frustration to words. “Because I know if we – if we just _agreed_ , we could...” he sighed. “I don't know, Wrathion. I don't know what we are.” He hesitated, knowing the truth of his next words. “With what we believe in know, though – I don't think we can continue on like this. We'll keep arguing. We'll keep getting angrier at one another.” Like the war on the Alliance and Horde, it would be a vicious cycle: peace, anger, peace, anger.

It took a moment for Wrathion to respond. He looked over at the dragon.

“'Like this,'” Wrathion repeated, and spoke slowly, as if he were tasting the words in his mouth. “And yet that's what I asked you. What is _like this_ , Prince Wrynn?”

Anduin grit his teeth. “I told you,” he said. “I don't know.”

Wrathion stared at him. Anduin stared back. There was a moment of vague understanding between them, some reflection of memory of these past violent weeks: the Sha, sudden kisses, bloodied wounds, hands on wrists. But anger too. A shattered glass, hot glares, yelled arguments, the simmer of frustration.

 _Like this._ Enemy and ally.

Finally, Wrathion nodded. He looked away, eyes lidded, expression distant but guarded.

“A blank slate,” he said.

“What?”

“We just begin again,” Wrathion said. He didn't look at Anduin. “Fresh. A blank slate. _Deb duraz_ , as the dwarves say. What good does it do to linger so on the past?”

“The past can teach us things,” Anduin muttered. The dragon's mouth twitched into a small smile.

“Reflective as always, Prince Wrynn.”

Anduin thought a moment, then turned to face Wrathion. He gave a bow: a bow to an equal. Another prince.

The dragon hesitated, watching him, then bowed back.

They straightened. Wrathion nodded once, sharply, at him. He understood. Royalty to royalty was what they were, now. Cool allies, but no closer.

 _This is for the best_ , Anduin thought, but some part of him felt the loss – but also the peace of mind. It was done with.

“And how much have you explored the island?” Wrathion asked. Anduin was relieved for the change of subject, how fluid it was, and how surprisingly natural. _Don't linger on the past._

“A good amount,” the prince said, relaxing. Even if they had this sudden understanding, it didn't mean they had to awkwardly stand there and clear their throats in silence. “I haven't been up here, however, nor the higher reaches.”

Wrathion nodded. “I -”

A distant scream tore from the Celestial Court. Anduin startled. Even far away, there was a visceral feel to it that clutched at his lungs. He looked toward the direction of the Court, but couldn't see it through the tangle of forest and cliff-rock.

“Oh, those sound every hour, at least!” Wrathion said. “A tiger must have wandered too close to the perimeter.”

Anduin frowned, then shrugged. “They did seem bigger than normal,” he said.

“Larger than horses,” the dragon said. “You should speak with Kairoz about the phenomenon. It's _very_ interesting.”

“I think I will.”

There was another scream, this one from someone different. Anduin glanced again in the direction of the Court.

“He's been working on something,” Wrathion continued, unnerved by the scream. “I'll have to introduce you to one another.”

Left straightened, and the movement was sudden enough that he found himself glancing back at her. Wrathion did too. The orc's eyes were distant, her tusked mouth a frown. She nodded, and her gaze came back to the present.

She looked troubled. Her eyes found the Black Prince's.

“An Agent is asking you to come to the Court immediately,” she said. Wrathion raised an eyebrow.

“Why?”

“She did not say. The connection cut out.”

The dragon tilted his head. By the look on his face, Anduin guessed that did not happen often.

“Fine, fine. This had better not be a waste of my time.” Wrathion sighed and turned, but glanced over at the prince with a raised eyebrow. “Joining me?”

Anduin opened his mouth to quip back: _no, I thought I'd wait for the yaungol to return_ , but he closed his mouth and only nodded. He was suddenly too tired for jokes.

* * *

 

When they came down from the plateau, at first glance, it looked as if the Celestial Court had been abandoned by all but the Celestials. The merchants were gone. The paths around the arena, deserted.

But it was a trick of perspective. As they grew closer, the crowd appeared beyond the curve of the cliffs as Wrathion, Anduin, and Left passed the turn.

The mortals were all clumped together, facing the northern end of the arena where the stairs were. A dull roar of conversation eddied and swayed. He caught excitement, annoyance, anger, confusion. Confusion like what Wrathion felt now.

“Left?” he muttered, and glanced sidelong at the orc. She watched the crowd and shook her head. For once, the agent didn't know the answers.

Was there a fight to be had in the arena? But he saw no challenger of the Celestials in their midst.

They arrived at last, feet hitting the pavement – and like a gong was struck, the crowd realized they had come, and Wrathion froze as a hundred eyes turned to look at him.

He recovered, but not quickly enough to seem smooth for it. The crowd spoke louder. Now he caught pieces of conversation: _trial, dragon, traitor._

Bewildered, Wrathion spoke. “Ah... might I help any of you?”

Anduin shook his head, frowned, then turned to look behind them. The prince looked around, as if trying to catch some hint beyond in the forests.

In front of him, Xuen rose to his feet. Wisps of ice rolled off of him, and he paced forward before turning to face Wrathion.

“The Black Prince Wrathion.” His voice was a boom, and it quieted the crowd in an instant. Silence rolled over the court. Wrathion was suddenly aware of how hard his heart was beating. “You have been challenged to a Trial of Strength.”

“What?! That's ridiculous! By who?”

Beside him, Anduin widened his eyes.

A low crunching sound, like that of cracking rock, ground behind him. People in the crowd began to scream as they had before when he and Anduin had been on the plateau.

Wrathion whirled around, pulling the hidden dagger from his belt.

He dropped it with a choked gasp.

Perched upon the yaungolian archway was Sabellian, neck arched and head high, his tail curled about one of the pillars. His eyes were smoldering pits of anger.

“I, Sabellian, Son of Deathwing, do challenge you,” he rumbled, smoke gushing from his mouth. His maw twisted in a satisfied smile, but the anger did not leave his face. “Did you expect any other?”

 


	35. Chapter 35

[[ So sorry for no updates. Life has been distracting. Hope y'all enjoy!]]

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Wrathion stared, wide-eyed, at the dragon before him.

_I killed you!_

Sabellian stepped down the archway like a giant, coiled cat. His eyes never left Wrathion’s, full of a controlled malice that sent a chill deep in the Prince’s gut and knees. He felt locked in place. Left grabbed at his elbow, but he didn’t move.

“How are you alive?” His voice came out as a gasp. Sabellian smiled grimly.

“It takes more than a single dagger wound to kill me, boy,” he said.

His thoughts weren’t like a hurricane, whirling with confusion and wildness. No - instead they were frozen, pinpointed in place on one thought, one image, one choke as a dagger hit the gut.

_I killed you._

Smoke enveloped Sabellian’s form. It shrank down and dispersed, and he stood before the Prince as a human. His eyes were ringed with circles, he had an obvious limp - but still that smug malice remained, trained ever on Wrathion, never moving, hardly blinking. His heart hammered.

“A Trial of Strength?” Wrathion repeated, unbelieving. “You’ll crush me under your paw!”

“You misunderstand, Black Prince,” Xuen interrupted. The tiger stalked into view with his usual grace. His glowing eyes were trained on Wrathion. “This is a trial of strength, but there shall be no combat.”

Wrathion glanced from Xuen, to Sabellian, then back again. He glared, thought, then, not knowing what to say, struck out his hands in a waving motion to bid Xuen to continue. He was acutely aware of the mortal crowd watching him.

“It has not been some time that trials have been conducted here,” Xuen rumbled. His voice now echoed forward, obviously not just for Wrathion to hear - he spoke to the mortals and all those surrounded, too. “But millennia ago, when this island was not yet lost in time, they were sported with earnest. Challengers would either fight, or depend on their strength of will to guide them.” He nodded to the other Celestials who remained at each of their respective corners. “Each challenger asked a Celestial to champion them in such trials.”

Wrathion did not yet understand. “And?” he asked, his voice hinging on exasperation and panic. Sabellian was still watching him, but he dared not meet the alchemist’s eyes. His heart remained beating wildly at the dragon’s appearance. _I killed him! I_ _ **killed**_ _him!_

“This shall be a trial of wills,” Xuen said. “It is of my own design: a trial of Strength. Your will and judgement shall guide your thoughts, and will either deny you what you seek or not.”

Before Wrathion could further ask what the Tiger was saying, Xuen lifted his massive paw and stretched out his claws. From each wicked white talon, a glow emitted and spread forth. Like curls of smoke, the energy twisted outward, then coalesced into a white sphere that looked to be made of cloud. It was about the size of Wrathion’s torso, and hovered idly in the air.

“Each of you will give your case,” Xuen rumbled. He nodded toward Sabellian. “Sabellian believes that you are wrong in trying to kill both him and his family. He thinks you to be a murderer, a child, and naive.”

Wrathion hissed. But again Xuen spoke before he could.

“And you, Black Prince, believe Sabellian and his family’s deaths to be necessary to the safety of this world.” Xuen looked back at him. “That they are beyond true redemption and, like the others of your family you have set free, they must fall, too, lest they harm others.”

Wrathion hesitated. How did Xuen know that? He cast a suspicious look toward Sabellian.

“The challenger with the most conviction and the least amount of doubt will win,” the tiger explained. “You must be able to stand at the side of your cause without wavering - for when doubt clouds the soul, strength is swallowed in its shadow… and the cause is poisoned by the ensuing confusion.”

Now Wrathion understood. He had to show with all his soul that he knew his way was right. That he had the stronger will.

 _Easy_ , he thought in a shaking voice. He felt like he was on the edge of a great pit - one he had come close to falling before after his “murder” of Sabellian, and one he had only narrowly avoided by boxing himself up with stone and hardening himself to all emotion. Now, though? Knowing the alchemist still lived? Knowing he had failed even in killing the dragon? The pit threatened to swallow him.

“I have chosen to champion Sabellian,” Xuen said with a ring of finality. Wrathion startled and looked back at the Tiger.

“Champion _him?_ How could you possibly come to such a conclusion? He’s -”

But Xuen did not let him finish. “Who shall champion the Black Prince?”

Wrathion stilled. He recalled then that Xuen had said the “duelers” would choose a Celestial to champion them in some way. He looked back at the other Celestials, who watched him as one.

To his surprise, Niuzao stepped forward.

“I will,” the Black Ox rumbled. Wrathion stared blankly at him. “The Black Prince has shown a fortitude to both himself and to his tasks, and so I will champion him.”

Xuen glanced at Wrathion. “Do you agree to this?”

Somewhat stunned, Wrathion nodded quickly.

“Very well.” The tiger looked between the two dragons. “Now we must give terms.”

“Terms,” Wrathion repeated dully. Things were moving too quickly for him.

“If you are proven right in your case, you will be given something,” Xuen explained. “Whether it be peace, or justice, or an item.” He nodded to Sabellian. “Speak.”

Sabellian watched Wrathion. He smiled. It did not reach his eyes, and instead had the same smug calculation as before.

“If I am proven right,” Sabellian drawled, “... and I will be… you must leave my family alone. You will not harm nor kill them, and neither will you spy on them or stalk them with your little lackeys.”

“Is that all?” Wrathion asked sarcastically. As if he would agree -

“No.” Sabellian’s amusement flickered on his face. “When I win this trial, you are going to strip yourself of your false title, and you will go to Blade’s Edge to face not me, but my children, no matter what avenues you must take to do so.”

Wrathion thought it a joke. But Sabellian, and even Xuen, were watching him seriously. He laughed.

“Absolutely not,” he said, his laughter was a mix of anger and disbelief, now.

“You can ask Sabellian of anything if you champion through the trial, Black Prince,” Xuen reminded.

Wrathion paused.

“Anything?” he repeated. He smiled to himself.

“Then he should be executed,” Wrathion drawled, looking at Sabellian. “And the rest of the black dragons underneath him will be free to be slaughtered as they should have been long ago.”

He expected Sabellian to disagree. But the elder dragon nodded. That gave Wrathion pause. Sabellian couldn’t possibly be that confident, could he?

Xuen rose to his feet. “Very well,” he said again. “Do both agree to the terms?”

There was no way Sabellian could win. Wrathion’s case was the stronger one. Sabellian’s hinged on personal love and affection; the Prince’s on logic and reasoning and planning. If this was a Trial to see who had the least amount of doubts, then Wrathion could simply point out to Sabellian how he’d come so close to succumbing to the Old Gods after the battle at Sik’vess. How he was still a monster under all that false control. He had to sew hesitation.

“I agree,” Wrathion said.

“A moment.”

This was a new voice, but one Wrathion knew. He turned to stare at Kairoz as the Bronze dragon descended into the Celestial Court. In one hand, he held the hourglass he so treasured.

“I believe this can help,” the Bronze said, looking at Xuen. “It is a personal project of mine. It may not be finished, but it has properties that such a trial could use.”

“You never showed me what it does,” Wrathion hissed off to his side. Kairoz glanced at him, then looked back at Xuen.

“It allows one to get visions from the past,” Kairoz said, but spoke to the Tiger and not to the Prince. Wrathion prickled with irritation. “I can try my best to attune the Hourglass to a specific event, so all may see it.” He hesitated. “It may disfunction, at times, but only in minor instances.”

Xuen considered this. Then he nodded. “Very well. I agree to such an object if the duelers wish to use it.”

Sabellian was looking at Kairoz now with a mix of annoyance and interest. Wrathion frowned at the Bronze suspiciously, thinking he understood what Kairoz meant, but not completely.

“You mean to say,” Wrathion began slowly, “that if we give you some - scene to show this audience that happened in the past, the Hourglass will show a _vision_ of it?”

Kairoz nodded. His smile was sly but proud. “I told you: the epoch stones, and the magic of this island, allow so much. If you wish to show the audience something that helps your case…” He let the sentence trail off, and he raised his eyebrows at Wrathion expectantly.

This - this was perfect! Wrathion’s annoyance at the Bronze immediately vanished into excitement. He could show everyone the suffering Sabellian had inflicted on him and others - especially the mortals he had no doubt terrorized when corrupted on Azeroth. Then they would see his death, and the death of all the other Black Dragons, were necessary! He whirled to Xuen and grinned.

“I agree,” he announced.

“As do I,” Sabellian rumbled. He remained staring at the hourglass. Wrathion’s excitement fizzled. What would Sabellian recall from those sands?

Xuen nodded. “We will have a moment’s reprieve for the challengers to discuss,” he said.

The moment the tiger said that, Wrathion whirled away to the opposite side of the Court. Left and Anduin followed.

“I have dozens of spies,” he growled, “and not one knew he was alive?”

Left frowned. Her face was creased with frustration. “I can’t explain it,” she said. Anduin came up beside her. He studied Wrathion.

“Are you alright?”

“No.” The Black Prince glanced back at the elder dragon. He spoke with a woman that looked a little older than Wrathion, and he realized she’d been one of the drakes who had come with Sabellian in the beginning. He scowled.

“I’m sure you could always back out of the challenge,” Anduin suggested warily.

“I already accepted it,” he said. “And it’s not the challenge I’m worried about. It’s how he survived.” Wrathion swept off his turban and ruffled his hair, a nervous habit. He’d felt the blade pierce muscle and gut in Sik’vess. Such a wound would have made the dragon bleed out quickly.

“We could attack without the need for this trial,” Left said.

“And be struck down,” came a voice from above them. Wrathion looked up. Standing before them was a giant orc - a mountain of an orc, really. His face was hidden by a wolf mask. Left froze.

“You are with the dragon?”

“Yes.” The orc glanced at Wrathion. His distaste wasn’t hidden in his gaze.

“Rexxar,” Wrathion realized. The Champion of the Horde. Bewilderment struck him. “What do you have to do with Sabellian?”

“An old friend,” he said. He did not take his eyes off of him. Wrathion tried not to squirm under such a predatory gaze.

He did look away, though, and shook his head. He looked at Left, expecting her to know the answer. She shrugged.

That story would have to wait.

“We won’t attack,” Wrathion drawled, glancing back to the beastmaster. “Reach not for your axes.”

Rexxar grunted.

The idea, though, was tempting. Wrathion had a decent number of spies on the island,

and coupled with the mortals who would no doubt want to attack a black dragon elder, they might stand a chance against Sabellian and his own forces.

But was that even needed? Wrathion frowned in thought. No. No it wasn’t. This was a strength of will, he reminded himself. He knew he had conviction. He knew he owned up to his cause.

He _would_ win.

Kairoz waltzed over.

“So,” he said. “What visions would you like?”

Wrathion glanced at the Hourglass, where it now hovered by Kairoz’s shoulder.

“What of Sabellian’s corruption?”

“Oh. Yes.”

Wrathion brightened. “Excellent.” That was the one thing he had to work on. A trial of wills - he _had_ to seed Sabellian with self-doubt… and if he showed the elder dragon the monster he’d been right in front of his face? Yes. That would do well to make Wrathion’s own case. It’d be over quickly.

“Then I want something to shown what he really is,” he said. “Anything, or all of it. Something to make him shake.”

But surely Sabellian would expect that. Again he wondered what Sabellian would bring forth from the Hourglass.

“I have some ideas,” Kairoz said. “Don’t worry, my friend. I will win this for you.”

Wrathion smiled. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all. Sabellian might be alive by some miraculous feat, but this gave the Black Prince a chance to cement to the mortals and to all others his stance on being the last - and why he had to do certain things, like kill his family.

“No doubt he will ask me to summon what you have done to his family,” Kairoz said.

He shrugged. “It won’t matter when we show my reasoning behind it,” Wrathion said. “Ah, Kairoz… you can’t tweak the visions in my favor, can you?”

The Bronze gave him a guilty smile. “No. The Tiger spoke with me before I came to you. I must be neutral.”

“Fine, fine.” He glanced over to the Courtyard. Sabellian spoke with the Tiger now. He bristled, feeling oddly betrayed by Xuen, who had given him his blessing only recently. “Well! I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?” Anduin said. “Maybe you need some more visions…?”

“No. I’ll just keep showing a corrupted Sabellian. Enough to make my uncle start to doubt himself.”

Anduin frowned, but he said nothing.

“Worry not, Prince Anduin. I have this - easy.”

Anduin stared at him. A flicker of doubt passed through the prince’s eyes, but again he said nothing.

Wrathion felt strangely annoyed by that. He turned to Left. “Tell the Tiger I’m ready.”

\---

Moments later, they returned to the Courtyard, and Wrathion had a new flare of confidence.

“The time of the Trial has come,” the tiger said. “Place your hands on the orb. You must link your chi with it, so it may measure your doubts and fears. The Trial when end when it glows with its full energy - in the color of the winner.”

Sabellian swept forward with the prepared movements of someone who had expected the order. Wrathion frowned as the dragon placed his hand on the orb. He had the suspicion that he and Xuen had planned too much of this Trial beforehand, and he wondered what else his uncle had in store.

No matter, though. He took a deep breath and walked forward. No doubt. The most conviction. A trial of mental will. He could do that, and he would.

He put his hand on the orb.

Light enveloped both of them. Something warm grabbed at his heart and mind. Wrathion gave an involuntary gasp. His hand seeped a purple glow that sank into the sphere. Sabellian’s, in turn, gave the sphere orange energy.

Sabellian looked down at him. His expression was passive in its angry sort of way, and his eyes dark.

“I am going to destroy all you have done here,” he said in a low voice for only Wrathion to hear. “And you will suffer for it.” He smiled, grim. “It is more comforting to me than a quick death.”

Something in Sabellian’s tone made Wrathion nearly shudder. This was not the growling, maddened Sabellian from before, bent on violence and early revenge. This Sabellian had such a calculation about him, such a decisiveness, that Wrathion almost found himself believing the elder dragon.

“Well. Good luck,” he growled back.

“No, Black Prince,” Sabellian said. He backed away. “I am not the one who needs luck.”

Wrathion scowled and backed off to take his place on the Court.

“The Trial begins,” Xuen boomed. “The challenger shall be the first to present his case.”

“Show me the deaths of my children by the whelp’s hand,” Sabellian said without hesitation. “And all else he has done to make my family suffer.”

Kairoz nodded. He paused, then, raising one hand, he curled his fingers into a fist. A glow of gold and blue energy began to coalesce between the cracks of his fingers. It reached out to touch the Hourglass. As it did, the curled dragons about the item opened their eyes. A small murmur of interest rose in the crowd of mortals. The dragons uncurled themselves so the whole of the Hourglass’s pearly exterior revealed itself. The sands began to run not down, but up, defying gravity.

Kairoz grimaced. His pale face was aglow with the neons of his own magic.

With a sudden burst of energy, the Hourglass rippled and from it shot forward a slim beam of light. The light began to widen, and widen, and widen, until a great panorama stretched before them. It was so large the sides of it nearly touched the opposite edges of the Celestial Court.

The white glow diminished, but as it faded, other colors swirled into existence: black, reds, dull tans and browns. Some sharpened into spikes, and mountains, and - dragons.

Blade’s Edge Mountains shimmered into existence before them. The vision showed a scene in one of the lower but widest valleys, bordered by the sharpened rocks and cliffs that gave the region its name. The sky above startled Wrathion, so bright and red were the streams of nether and space.

In the valley, next to the large opening of a cave nestled in the mountains, stood three dragons. They were drakes, in truth, all seeming to be of the same age. Perhaps they were even of the same clutch. One sat close to the entrance.

“I don’t know why Father keeps it alive,” one of the drakes said in a husky voice. She was slim with a bright orange belly, and paced back and forth before the drake who seemed to be standing guard at the cave entrance. “Should it not die? It tried to kill us.”

The guard fluffed her wings. “Father wants more information from it,” she explained. “It tried to kill Talsian.”

“Yes. I know that.” The orange-bellied drake stopped and turned to face her sister. “It’s probably some treasure hunter, wanting our hides for glory.”

“It said it worked for someone, though,” the guard pointed out. “Don’t you think -?”

The orange-bellied drake interrupted her with a loud grunt. “I doubt the mortal will say much,” she said. “I hunt. I will bring you back something, Ryxia.” And with little else, the drake turned and jumped into the air, and soon she was a speck in the mountains.

Ryxia. Did not Wrathion know that name? He glanced at the drake and frowned in thought.

A noise, small but only just perceptible, came from the cave. Ryxia glanced back. The vision’s point of view shifted so it looked where Ryxia did: inside the cave. It was dark and stank of meat - how could he smell it, when watching something? - but within there was a faded red glow, no bigger than the size of a pebble.

Then he saw the shape: a crumped blood elf lay against the wall deep in the cave. It was his Blacktalon - the very first he had sent to scout Outland for search of information not about any dragons or hidden relatives, but to see if there was Legion activity and to collect information about demons in the various energies.

Wrathion realized what was about to happen. For whatever reason, he found himself tensing up.

Ryxia raised her smaller fins curiously. The Blood Elf was speaking, but lowly. Even in the vision he was not understandable. But Wrathion knew what he was saying, and who he was speaking to.

The small drake crept closer. The Blood Elf shook. His shattered hand, by some miracle, was able to grab the hidden dagger behind his back. His eyes glowed a dull red, but the gem glowed far brighter, signaling Wrathion’s control of him, even a world away.

Ryxia stepped closer still, until she was nearly looming over the elf. “Who were you talking to?” she asked again, a small hint of both curiosity and wariness in her words and eyes.

The Blood Elf lunged.

The drake did not see the dagger until it was too late. The blade struck her in the belly, and she shrieked in pain and fear. She scrambled to get away, but the Blood Elf hooked the dagger upward, and Ryxia’s scramble only made a further gash in her belly. She shrieked again in panic, but more-so now in agony.

And then, at once, she collapsed. Wrathion caught a glimpse of her intestines coiling out from the open wound. She fell atop the Blood Elf, which only sealed her fate further.

She went still.

The vision did not change immediately. It hovered on the corpse for a moment longer. Wrathion bit the inside of his cheek. He dared not look at Sabellian, but he wished he could look away.

This was the death that had begun it all. He remembered his own panic when the blood elf had shown him the drake, and how it had lit him into a frantic and sudden action, how he needed to see the drake dead for his own peace of mind and satisfaction… for she had been a sign that he had failed in the only task he had thought he had done with accuracy, and Wrathion was not one who liked his plans going very wrong.

What would have happened, he found himself thinking, if he had calmed enough to stop the elf - and himself, by extension - from killing this drake? He could have probably dealt with the situation more quietly - more acutely - without invoking Sabellian’s wrath. A foolish mistake. His first foolish mistake.

The vision shifted suddenly. It showed another cave, but this was dark and cold and blue. Stalagmites hung from the ceiling as sharp as a dragon’s tooth.

He knew immediately where he was. His still-healing left arm began to ache.

It was the cave Sabellian had brought him to after the elder dragon had attacked him at the Tavern - and where he had tortured him about information about his lack of corruption.

But the vision, to his relief, did not show his bleeding and bruised body. Instead, it showed the maddened drake Left and Anduin had unleashed from the deeper recesses of the cavern to serve to distract Sabellian. It lay on its side; deep gashes riddled its scaled hide. The sickly white Sha energies Wrathion knew too well radiated at the fallen drake’s eyes, horns, and paws, pulsating with each struggling breath of the drake’s.

Above it loomed Sabellian. He was sitting on the outcrop of the cave, as his full form could not quite fit inside. He had lowered his head above the quivering, possessed drake, and watched it quietly. The other drake, the one who had helped with the torture - Nasandria? - stood on the opposite side of her father. Her uneasy glance passed back and for from her elder, to her brother, then back again.

“M-my blood… hungers…” the possessed drake hissed in a voice that had Wrathion’s heart clench with fear. It was not the drake’s voice.

But then he realized who this drake really was: the second drake to come with his father to help destroy the Tavern, and Wrathion, in turn. Right had wounded it greatly. It was no wonder he had so easily succumbed to the Sha, weakened as he had been by such vicious wounds.

The drake looked at Sabellian, and for the slimmest of moments, a clearness came to him. His gaze lost its hunger and anger and became pleading. Desperate.

“Pain… exquisite… pain…” he continued.

It was not a moment after Sabellian placed his massive paw on his son’s side. But what Wrathion thought to be a comforting motion instead turned out far more gruesome: Sabellian leaned down, took the lost drake’s head in his mouth, and snapped his neck with a practiced movement.

The body fell still. Sabellian let go of the head, and it felt with a clanging of its great horns to the floor. Nasandria was frozen in shock.

“We could have -”

“We could have done nothing, Nasandria. He couldn’t be helped.”

The vision shifted again. For the second time it showed Blade’s Edge, but in one of its surprisingly fertile forests. A glimpse of an abandoned Cenarion Expedition building was visible through the clumped trees to the south, but it was a narrow river that the image instead focused on. Large lumps of dark rock lay about it. Again, even if he was not there, Wrathion could actually _smell_ the scene.

It smelled of rot and chemicals.

He wrinkled his nose - and then realized the shapes he had taken for rock at first glance were bodies. It was a macabre assortment of twisted corpses: lynxes, raptors, and wolves all lay in pained positions about the grass.

“The river - poisoned,” breathed a voice. The point of view of the vision shifted to the left. A smaller drake, slim-bodied like one of the spotted big cats of the Barrens, stood panting before Samia in her dragon form.

“What?” Samia’s fin rose in anger and surprise. “They poisoned the water?” Samia snarled. “What – where did you hear this? Where are Rexxar and the others?”

“We found their camp,” the drake panted. “it took hours, but the bear found them. We overheard them speaking. They’d poisoned the river with the same herb that poisoned Neltharaku.”

The vision shifted again. Instead of the forest, it showed the sharp valleys. And - Wrathion held his breath. There were so many of his kind here. Whelps that he knew immediately were around his true age were curled up near the opening of a great cave, and perhaps half a dozen drakes slumbered near another smaller opening. Two adult dragons stood guard, and among them, three nether-drakes. The slim anomalous dragons looked so out of place among their brethren.

But while Wrathion began to wonder why the Hourglass was showing such a normal scene, but began to see oddities. Every dragon he saw moved little, or sluggishly. With some, he saw the beginning curve of ribs shine against taut muscle and scale. Eyes were dull and tired. They were starving, he realized. Even he, who had not spent much time around other dragons, realized such signs in their draconic body language.

A dragon and two nether-drakes alighted close by the whelp cave. In their paws they held three rock flayers and a motley talbuk. The vision zoomed in, and Wrathion scrunched his nose. The corpses were old. Their fur and skin sagged with setting-in decay, and the blood, he knew, was already dry.

One of the black dragons who had been standing guard sniffed. “Is that all?”

The dragon who had brought the old feast grunted. She let go of the corpses, and the nether-drakes with her did the same. “We came back as fast as we could,” she explained. “But we can only go so far before the meat starts to take.”

The male dragon grunted. “Damn this poison,” he said. “Let us hope it will run its course into Zangarmarsh.”

“And that every lynx and raptor wasn’t condemned,” the female grumbled.

It seemed the poison thrown into the river by his Blacktalon’s had not only killed many of the dragons’ prey, but it had also decimated much of the prey among Blade’s Edge. Was the river the only source of water? Wrathion watched in silence as the dragons began their grim task of dealing out the meat to all, and did not blame the whelps’ lack of enthusiasm as they poked at the meat with the end of their snouts. No wonder they were hungry; no viable prey seemed to be showing itself in the mountains.

The vision dimmed - and Wrathion, who had prepared himself for another image of death and suffering, blinked in surprise when it faded entirely, leaving only the Celestial Court.

He dared a glance at Sabellian. The elder dragon looked to hardly be in control of his anger: his fists were clenched, his jaw locked, and small puffs of smoke escaped his nose with each breath.

“Do you wish to give your case?” Xuen’s voice rang, and broke the spell over both dragons. Wrathion ducked his head and looked at the audience. To his annoyance, all were staring at him. Far away, he couldn’t tell what the expression was on most of their faces.

Sabellian breathed in deep. His outward anger diminished, and he turned to the mortals - but not before looking at Wrathion. Though his outward anger had gone, there was such a deep-seated hatred in his look that the Black Prince found himself leaning back.

But then Sabellian looked away.

“I understand your distrust of me,” Sabellian said. “My kind has made this would suffer. But I am not like that anymore. My time on Outland has - alleviated me of such madness.”

A lie, Wrathion thought.

“We did nothing to invoke this boy’s crusade of death,” the elder dragon continued. “You saw how his rogue attacked my child unhindered - and how it killed another. And for what purpose?” The more he spoke the angrier and louder Sabellian became. “So he could be the last? So he could think his _charged duty_ truly finished?” He spat the words. “My children harmed no one. No mortal suffered by their doing. And even in their innocence, this boy decided to murder them all. To make them die for something they did not do.”

“You’re corrupt!” Wrathion interjected. “Outland may have given you some relief, but you all remain cursed! If you were to come to Azeroth permanently -”

“Did we give any indication that we would be coming back to Azeroth?” Sabellian roared in a sudden outburst. Wrathion flinched. “Or did you see a black dragon and panic?”

Wrathion’s face grew hot with anger and shame. The audience began to murmur among themselves. He knew that they were already distrustful of them after Sabellian had spread the information that he had been double-crossing both factions. This was not helping his case.

“I hardly panicked -”

“You are a child. A boy. You threw a tantrum and now try to fix your mistake.”

The orb began to pulse orange.

Wrathion scowled. “My turn,” he said. “Show me Sabellian as he truly is, Kairoz.”

Sabellian’s face fell - but only for a moment.

The Hourglass rotated to a horizontal position. Still the sand ran back and forth with no need for gravity. A second time, the energy expanded, and a second time the scene before them came to life.

The mortal town was aflame. Great gusts of smoke billowed from collapsed roofs and piles of wood and rubble which were once buildings. Huge slabs of timber, broken pieces of rock, and bodies of both humans and horses littered the wide cobbled road. Wrathion was not sure if it was night, or if the smoke was so thick it had consumed the light of the sun.

And the screams were deafening.

He watched, transfixed, as people fled past his vantage point, disappearing to the side as if they had traveled out of his line of vision and back into the past. A woman on a horse cantered through the road, a great harpoon held in her right hand, and shouted orders indistinct above the din of chaos. More soldiers arrived in the street, spilling out from a side alley, some on horseback but most on foot. They wore the armor of Lordaeron, Wrathion noticed. Not Stormwind.

“Prepare yourselves!” the woman yelled. “It comes again!”

The mortals looked up and held their weapons. Wrathion followed their gaze. High above, the smoke billowed and stretched. A near roar thundered forth from the wake, and at once the smoke-clouds burst apart.

A giant black dragon soared out from their cover. Its great mouth was open wide, its teeth and gullet stained with blood, and its eyes were alit with such a beastial fury it seemed more the gaze of a proto-dragon than a dragon’s of actual intellect.

Sabellian roared again and dived toward the soldiers.

The commander’s horse reared as the hulking behemoth came upon them. Wrathion knew immediately that the humans were outmatched against such a foe, but he found himself transfixed upon Sabellian, both out of fear and awe. The elder dragon did not slow his descent as he careened to the band of soldiers. Harpoons from unseen workers flew suddenly at his sides, but he spun. They sailed over him.

Sabellian opened his maw wide and exhaled. Flame burst forth from his gullet, and though the humans had expected this, a quarter of them were too slow for the sudden attack. The fire cooked them alive in their suits of armor.

But the other survivors did not remain lucky. Sabellian clamped his jaws closed and roared back with a sudden bank of his wings. His throat contracted. He opened his mouth again. But from it did not spill flame - instead a torrent of dark purple liquid shot from his gullet. It spilled upon more than half of the defenders. From where it had struck, sudden steam billowed. Metal corroded, and with it, skin and flesh. Those stricken screamed in agony as the poison burned away at their muscle down to the bone. Even though he was watching a vision, Wrathion could smell the chemical burning of flesh.

Panic now scattered the remaining forces, and like the citizens from before, they turned to flee. Sabellian roared in what Wrathion thought as amusement. The dragon turned around to the forces as he had before, but no poison or flame exited his jaws. This time, he dove, and plucked up two humans in his mouth. They hardly had time to scream before he crunched down on them with his great teeth and then swallowed the battered bodies whole, and soared back off into the clouds.

The vision shifted, and when it stilled, Wrathion saw that a little time had passed, but enough where the town was far more destroyed than before. On one of the still standing buildings, Sabellian perched, and he roared with such great force the air around Wrathion seemed to shake. His point of view backed up as if he were watching through a fleeing citizen’s gaze, and when it did so, Wrathion saw more of a panorama of the destruction: an entire town, perhaps the size of Redridge, lay desolate, burning, and broken. Dozens of bodies littered the road, of all ages and sizes - and those were the only ones he could see.

Wrathion realized he was holding his breath. While his Tavern had not suffered such desolation, the scene reminded him of when Sabellian had first attacked him - and then he remembered that he was watching a vision, not interacting with it. He was not within it, as much as it seemed so. He glanced to the side, and startled as he saw the brightness of the Celestial Court to his side - and there at his side stood Sabellian, as he had been before.

The elder dragon’s face was taut and ashen. It was the only indication of any grief or regret on his face. Wrathion could not tell what the dragon was thinking; even as the vision began to fade, Sabellian remained transfixed on the image of his past-self with a distant but hardened look. How could this be the same monster in the vision? Even during the Tavern, and even during the battle of Sik’vess, Sabellian had not shown such beastial fury or such bloodlust as he did in the flashback…

But that did not help his case. Wrathion shook himself out. That Sabellian _was_ Sabellian. It had only been the brief time when Sabellian had gone to Outland that he had been given respite, but the corruption still lurked, and with it, the same dangerous beast that still roared and laughed mightily in the vision.

Finally, the giant image before them faded. A silence spread among the Court. Not even the audience, who had been so animated before, spoke much. Wrathion turned to face them, and saw most if not all staring at Sabellian, who still had not looked away where the vision had been.

The orb grew an ugly mix of orange and a light lavender, swirling together and overlapping, each energy trying to take over the other.

“So,” Wrathion said. “ _That_ creature is what I’m trying to stop from happening. That was you, Sabellian. Do remind me: how long ago did you enter the Dark Portal? And how old _are_ you?”

The dragon scowled at him.

“Oh, nevermind! I’ve just remembered. Thirty years ago, perhaps? That’s when you were… ‘clear’ of mind. And you’re ten thousand years old.” He counted on his hands in mocking fashion. “A mere … .3 percent of your life.” He smiled.

The lavender began to eat at the orange.

_Oh, I have you now, uncle._

“And here you are, proclaiming yourself of sane mind and body, when you’ve hardly lived as much for any time at _all_ in comparison to your vast span of years,” Wrathion continued. “How could you begin to know if you still won’t catch madness in Outland? The Old Gods may still reach out to you there - being _interdimensional_ void beings, of course. That’s right: you don’t know. You’re a time bomb, waiting to explode.”

Sabellian’s glower became murderous. The orb pulsed purple.

_Sew the doubt._

“You’re right,” Sabellian said at last. “I don’t know.” He scowled. “But you act as if I want to return to that enslaved life.” He glanced at the Hourglass, where it spun like a glob at Kairoz’s side. Silence stretched among them.

“Bronze,” he said at last. “Show me the end of Obsidia’s Wrymcult.”

Kairoz hesitated. His eyes grew distant - but he was quick to nod. He turned and swept out his hands, and as before a curtain of energy rocketed from the artifact. It swirled through the air like a screen,  billowing and rippling with grit and golden sand.

It parted. Before them stretched Blade’s Edge, hot and unending in its sprawl of spikes and gorges.

A flash of onyx and red swept past them. The vision followed it. It was a black dragon, lithe of body and flying fast toward a cave below. It was no one Wrathion recognized - but did he not know the name Obsidia?

The dragon landed in front of the cave.

“Sabellian!”

The roared name echoed down the gorge, its challenge tangible in the snarl.

Shadows shifted from within the cave mouth, and from them stepped the alchemist in his true and gigantic form. His eyes were dark and quiet as he stared at the smaller dragon before him.

“Obsidia,” he greeted with no lacking distaste.

“A mortal band has just killed Maxnar - and half of my wrymcult in Coven,” she growled. Movement smeared off to the top of the gorge. Another dragon sailed into view, then landed behind the female. Then another. Then another. Three adult dragons stood before Sabellian, each wildly different in appearance and design.

They were not of Sabellian’s clutch. They had no double-horns, no brown-gold tinge to the underbelly. Wrathion stared at them. There had been more dragons in Blade’s Edge that were not of Sabellian’s brood? And yes, he knew the name Obsidia - it came to him while he stared at the leading female. She’d been a broodmother during the Cataclysm, and had been destroyed. But why was she here?

“Your dragonspawn lair?” Sabellian didn’t look at the newcomers. “A shame.”

“I know it was your doing,” Obsidia bit out. “I know your daughter commanded them.”

“Did you see her lead them into the Coven?” Sabellian flicked his eyes at last to the other dragons. The air was palpable with challenge - and anger. But the elder dragon didn’t seem bothered, as if he could fight back the three with a quick swat of his claw.

“Blackscale has seen her working with the Expedition,” Obsidia said. “Giving out baubles and gold… and stealing my whelps from their assigned hunters -”

“Assigned hunters?” For the first time, Sabellian flickered with the anger and impatience Wrathion was used to. “You give them to the mortals as gifts. As _pets_. Only so you may stay in power over them. So they can continue their… _worship_ of you, worm. The children are better off with Samia.”

“They are _mine_ ,” Obsidia snarled. “And you admit to meddling!” She whipped her tail back and forth. “The Wyrmcult is of my own design. I will not have you tear down what I have -”

“I will tear down what I will, Obsidia,” Sabellian snarled. “Deathwing left me as commander, and you as me underling. Do not test me, broodmother.”

“Deathwing would loathe to see his commander now,” she spat. Sabellian growled. Even though it was just a vision, Wrathion felt the sound in his chest. “Already as soft as a dove when he has nothing to guide him.”

“Soft?” Sabellian huffed smoke, a hint of amusement in his face. “Idiot. Is that what you call the Old Gods? Guides? They’re our enslavers!” Each word grew in volume until the last was roared. Whatever was happening here had been in motion for a long time; they were witnessing the boiling point. “You call me weak? Weak is the fool who can’t even cope with the idea of freedom. Weak is trying to recreate a way of life known only to a slave. Weak is doing only what they know rather than trying to do better - and weak is handing over their own children to power-hungry mortals to keep that lifestyle in check!” Sabellian bared his teeth, his orange eyes aglow. “You call ME weak, broodmother?”

“I am doing what I must!” Obsidia snarled. “At each turn you stop me… and you? You do nothing to help us! Do you think I want some flimsy domestic life that you’ve settled in so comfortably? I want the life that was stolen from me by this world! How can so you easily turn away from everything you’ve known? This Wrymcult is my refuge. You cannot take it from me!”

“I can,” Sabellian growled. “And I will. Your cult is an abomination.” He glanced over the others, eyes studying. One of them did not look at him, instead staring at the ground in shame. “All of you are involved. Clearly.”

“Obsidia is right,” said one dragon. “We wish for our old life. It… it’s been difficult in trying to adjust. I find myself empty, without purpose…”

“Then find purpose, Rivendark,” Sabellian spat.

“You may be our commander, but you can’t choose what we want,” said another, the one standing next to the dragon who hadn’t yet looked up from the ground. “Sabellian, even you must find it hard. You are older than all of us. Do you not feel -?”

“Do I feel as if I wish to return to enslavement?” Sabellian scoffed. “No. I’m not so enamored with the idea, Insidion.”

Insidion frowned, but said nothing. To Wrathion, it looked like he had little conviction in the subject. The words had sounded strangely rehearsed. He eyed Obsidia. She was their leader, not Sabellian, he realized. And it looked like Sabellian knew that too.

Rivendark stepped forward. “Then what should we do? None of us want this life - and you!  Turning away from your father. When the Portal reopened, we wanted to return, and you forced us to stay - coward!”

Sabellian flexed his claws. Any amusement fled from his face, and Wrathion felt fear in his own heart as the elder dragon took on a countenance of simmering rage and power. He turned the gaze to the challenging dragon.

Rivendark took a nervous step backward. All fight fled from his face.

“Learn your place, or I will force you into it,” Sabellian said.

“Enough.” Obsidia’s word was crisp and like a bite of air. “You all nothing of our only life, here. You will doom us to suffer - and this world has limited time before it devours itself. You would doom us to its demise, as well?”

“If you cannot live freely, then yes. You will suffer, but not because of me. Because of your own weakness.” He huffed. “And as for Outland’s destruction… that is far in coming.”

“Then,” she said, “we will leave.”

Silence.

“Leave,” Sabellian repeated. The word fell from his tongue like honey, slowly and drawn out. “Deathwing has not released us from this station.”

Obsidia snorted. “That’s what you said when you didn’t let us go through the Portal. We all know Deathwing thinks us dead. He can’t release us if he doesn’t know we live.”

“And our charge is completed,” cut in Rivendark. “We protected his eggs. It wasn’t our fault they came out… wrong.”

_The Netherwing._

Sabellian glanced at them. It was becoming clear he hadn’t expected such a turn of events. But if they were at such odds, why did he not embrace  the idea?

“Furywing,” he said, looking at the other female. “You agree?”

She bowed her head lower and said nothing.

Sabellian bared his teeth. “All of your children would march to their death. Those whelps have never heard the whispers. Look at me! Do you want to see them grow mad?”

Furywing flinched, but did not raise her head.

Obsidia looked smug. “They will return to their rightful legacy,” she said. “And be raised as conquerors - unlike your whelps, Sabellian, simply bait for the Gronn.”

Sabellian hissed. The hateful sound was like a spell, freezing them all in place. He opened his mouth to show off his teeth, and his fangs elongated unnaturally, like a snake’s. Wrathion had caught a glimpse of those in the earlier vision, but thought it a fluke. Now, looking at them, they caught the sun in a metallic way. Metal implants?

Obsidia rumbled and took a step back.

But a moment later, Sabellian seemed to change his mind. He closed his mouth. The dragons relaxed.

“You want to leave?” the elder dragon said. “Then leave. Go enslave yourselves and your children. I am done with you.”

Obsidia smiled, pleased, then raised her wings. “We should have done this a long time ago,” she mused. “Good luck with the Gronn, commander.”

She flapped her wings and was off. Rivendark quickly followed.

 _He needed them for protection. Gruul must still be alive, then._ Of course Sabellian hadn’t wanted them to leave. That was too much of an open position. If the father of Gronn wanted more dragon trophies, all that would stand before him would be a single dragon, not four.

Furywing turned as if to leave, but rumbled and went up to Sabellian. The dragon hadn’t moved.

“Sabellian,” she said. “You could come with us. I know it’s been difficult for you too, like it was for Kesia. If you come back…”

“No.” Sabellian didn’t speak with the same venom as before. A deep exhaustion settled into his voice. “That life is a ghost to me. I can’t go back to it, no matter how the weaker parts of my mind call to it.” He glanced toward where Obsidia and Rivendark had gone. “I can understand their wish to return. But you and Insidion? You just had a clutch.”

“It’s all I’ve ever known -”

“As it was for me,” Sabellian snapped. Furywing hunched her shoulders. “But I can see when a challenge is a gift. And now you will sacrifice your children so you can be comfortable in servitude.” He scowled. “Get out of my sight.”

“Sabellian -”

“Get out. And do not come back.”

Furywing looked hurt. As Sabellian turned away, the vision faded.

Again, the suddenness of reality had Wrathion dizzy. He blinked hard for a couple moments as he adjusted.

And when he did, he knew at once he was beginning to lose. He looked at Sabellian, who stared at him with a smug look.

The orb pulsed. Its light lavender tilt began to shift - into a deep orange.

Everyone watched him. Wrathion’s brown broke out in a cold sweat. How could he deny what he’d just seen?

Sabellian hadn’t wanted to go back to Azeroth. His vehemence had been touchable. He’d never been a danger to the world. With panic, Wrathion realized his own doubt, and he tried to grab it, to turn it and squash it in his hands. He couldn’t lose. No. He had to kill the dragons. He had to!

Something Obsidia said struck him.

“So what if you didn’t want to come back?” Wrathion said at last in the silence. A strength of wills. No doubt. A strange warmth suffused him, and he recognized it to when he’d received Niuzao’s blessing in Steppes. Niuzao had championed him. Fortitude. He took the blessing with desperate claws now. “Outland will fall eventually, and you and your brood will be forced to come here, as Obsidia and the others did. You’ll still become a danger to us. I’ve done what I’ve done so I can stop that before it begins. We all saw what destruction you by yourself could unleash - and as I said, you don’t know if you’ll not grow mad in Blade’s Edge!”

“My brood will never submit  to the Old Gods again,” Sabellian drawled. He looked unaffected. Wrathion bared his teeth. The orb continued its orange pulse.

He was losing.

“Oh,” the Black Prince said, “and how will you do that? Some wonderful elixir of yours?”

“I’ll kill myself.” The words struck Wrathion like a blow. He stared, wide-eyed. “But now before releasing my children of their own coming misery.”

“You’ll… you’ll kill your _own_ children?”

“As I said,” Sabellian rumbled, “none of us will be slaves again.”

Never once did the orb shake in its color. Sabellian had no doubts about such a path. Killing his own children did not quiver at his strength? Wrathion blanched. Titans, he had never known this.

He had to put doubts in that path, then. He had to make Sabellian question.

“So you can kill your own?” Wrathion scowled. “Why fight me over something that is inevitable? Come, uncle, surely you see the stupidity in all this! You hate me because I’m beating you to the punch, as they say, is that it?”

“I hate you because you’re a threat,” Sabellian snarled. “You would steal all the years that have yet to live because of your own fear and impatience. I want them to live all the life they can. I want their lives to be free of horror. I want their last moments to be those of peave and family.” Sabellian scowled. “I want them to know love. Do you think I want them to know fear at the end of an assassin’s blade in their final heartbeats? Skewered by a mortal because of a paranoid cousin?”

The orb pulsed a brighter orange.

“You can try to shake me,” Sabellian said. “I see you trying. But you cannot.”

“No! I will not lose this!” Wrathion balled his hands into fists. “You are Deathwing’s son! His first clutch! You can’t walk free, even in a world with no threat to Azeroth - and I already killed you! I can kill you again!”

The hourglass shuddered.

It exploded with energy, and before Wrathion could blink, he was swallowed by it.

Wrathion found himself in a dark cave. It was shallow, the end rounding off to his left in a hollowed wall laced with sharp points and cracks. A dry smell permeated the air. It reminded him dimly of his time in the egg – of the Badlands.

He looked the other way toward the light, and startled. Sabellian stood there, looking at the entrance of the sizable cavern, where it opened up into a crowded scene of more dusty-colored rocks and natural walls. A mountain range, perhaps.

“How did we get here?” Wrathion asked in bewilderment. Had the Hourglass somehow transported them? But Sabellian gave no indication of hearing him. Wrathion glared. It was not the first time the elder dragon had ignored him, and so, reaching his hand out, the Prince waved it in front of Sabellian's face.

Nothing. The elder dragon only exhaled.

Wrathion scowled and smacked Sabellian's snake pauldron -

Only for his hand to go through Sabellian.

He paused in alarm. It was as if Sabellian was an apparition. Again Wrathion struck his hand out, and again it passed through the dragon. But unlike normal apparitions or holograms, Sabellian's image did not waver or disperse in the movement of Wrathion's hand. Instead he remained undisturbed, solid as he had appeared before.

And then, studying Sabellian, Wrathion realized there were details in this image that he had not caught before. Sabellian was wearing an altered outfit than the one he was accustomed to seeing the elder dragon wear. While the snake shoulders remained, the robes were less colorful and less voluminous. Instead they reminded Wrathion of the Kirin Tor battlemage armor: half robe, half mail, and cut slim to the body. The colors were a deep orange, black, and crimson.

But the outfit was ripped in savage places, and what Wrathion thought to be blood stained more than one unfortunate patch of cloth or mail. Sabellian himself was injured: his left arm was limp at his side and quickly bandaged, and one of his eyes was a deep blue bruise. Other scratches and bruises littered the dragon's visible skin. He slouched as if his back ached. And to Wrathion he looked almost... younger. Not by much, but perhaps enough to be obvious. The angry creases in his eyes were slighter, and his face a little smoother if not for the bruises.

This was a vision, he decided. It could be nothing else. But unlike the other visions, Wrathion seemed to be a _part_ of this phantasm, living in it like a ghost. But what was it showing him? He suspected this was again a corrupted Sabellian because of the shift of age and clothing, but why -?

A sudden shadow crossed over the light of the entrance. Sabellian straightened and bowed his head. Wrathion looked over.

He stiffened. Sweat immediately broke out on his brow.

Deathwing stood before him.

Wrathion had seen Deathwing before in his trials that the Celestials had given him. That image had been nightmarish enough with its detailed likeness, and had been enough to send him into fits of fear, even in front of his champion. But this – this was the true Deathwing in the flesh.

He was massive. There was no other words to describe the fallen Aspect. Every piece of him was jagged and raw and large: from his claw-pauldron shoulders, to the great pieces of dried lava that acted as his chestplate, to his actual height. He exuded both power and cunning, and Wrathion could feel the unnatural heat roll off of the dragon's mortal guise even from where he stood. On instinct he slouched back as if to cower against the wall. But he went no further, finding himself frozen in fear.

“Father,” Sabellian greeted hoarsely, and the submission in his tone was just enough to make Wrathion break free from his thrall. Never before had he heard Sabellian speak so low and quivering. “Good news?”

“Enough news to make a decision.” Deathwing's voice was like the first grumblings of an earthquake, and held a cold malice in it that made Wrathion shudder. The Aspect walked into the cave, and his shadow stretched before him, contorting against the far end of the inner walls.

Sabellian did not move as Deathwing approached him, but he kept a submissive posture: his head bowed lower, his eyes looking not at Deathwing's face, but at his chest. “And?”

“The mortals have moved on,” Deathwing said. “The skull is lost.”

Sabellian glanced up to the Aspect's face. “Allow me to send my faster scouts after them. I can -”

“No.” The reply was swift and decisive, and Sabellian fell silent. “We must move on to other avenues.”

What time period was this? Wrathion wracked his brain for clues as to what they were speaking of. Deathwing was still among Azeroth; he had not yet fled to the recesses of Deepholm. The Battle of Grim Batol had not yet taken place, and Wrathion admitted he knew little about Sabellian's personal history enough to pinpoint when he and Deathwing might have been together on some mayhem concerning mortals, or a skull.

A skull? He backtracked. That sounded familiar...

“The eggs will remain in Blade’s Edge,” Deathwing continued. He looked Sabellian up and down with a slow rake of his eyes, as if only just seeing his son’s injuries. Close together, now, Wrathion saw their obvious resemblances. Their faces had the same shape, and near the same slope of nose and cunning eyes. There was no mistaking Sabellian as to whose clutch he had come from.

Blade’s Edge. Only a moment later did that register. They were in Blade’s Edge!

“Remain here?” Sabellian repeated. He frowned. “Father…. if I may. I think the best course may be to move them to Nagrand -”

“And let the orcs trample them? Let the cooler winds freeze them in the shell?” Deathwing scoffed. “No. This place will be the best for my clutch.”

Sabellian nodded after a moment, but there remained an unsureness to his eyes.

“You and those below you will stay here and guard them,” Deathwing continued.

For the first time in the conversation, a flare of confidence lit in Sabellian’s eyes, reminding Wrathion finally of the Sabellian he knew. “ _Guard_ them? The mortals may have moved on, but the gronn remain. We’ll be slaughtered. Even you could not hold back that Gruul creature.”

The last sentence was a mistake. Deathwing whirled back to Sabellian with a swiftness that belied his hulking form, and the alchemist flinched, expecting a blow. But none came. Deathwing only loomed above his less-favorite son and emit a sudden heat and power about him that again Wrathion, despite being a ghost in this vision, felt himself freeze in fear.

“You will stay here.” Deathwing’s words were slow, punctuated, as if he was speaking to a whelp that had gone dangerously out of line. “You will guard my eggs at any cost.” He gave Sabellian a long look. “At _any cost_. If you should die, so be it. As long as my eggs remain.”

A long pause stretched before father and son. Wrathion himself did not breathe, but slowly, he realized what he was seeing: Deathwing’s abandonment of Sabellian on Draenor with the eggs that would eventually become the first Netherwing.

“I am… your lieutenant,” Sabellian finally said in a clipped, frustrated voice. But there was a hint of the same unsureness there from before. “Surely I would be better suited with you? Another could -”

“And you have done well as my lieutenant,” Deathwing interrupted smoothly, giving Wrathion a glimpse of perhaps the Daval Prestor he had pretended to be. “But now you will be here, making sure my new children are safe.” He turned away. “Nefarian takes Blackrock. Onyxia, Stormwind. And to you, this task is given.” He glanced back at his son, who stood staring blankly at him. “Your brother and sister accepted their tasks gracefully. Why don’t you?”

Sabellian locked his jaw. He bowed his head. “I will protect your clutch,” he said.

And then the world around him spun. Wrathion clutched his head as vertigo claimed him. He fell to his knees. When the sensation fled, he opened his eyes - and again found himself inside the Court.

Sabellian looked similarly bewildered - and pale in the face. Had he, too, been swallowed by the vision?

“I didn’t ask for that vision!” the Prince snarled at Kairoz, who looked alarmed.

“I’m sorry. Truly, I am. I didn’t know it would react so much to your emotions.” He cringed. “I told you it wasn’t complete.”

“An appropriate vision, no doubt,” Sabellian spit out. He rubbed his face and eyed Wrathion. “As you see,” he drawled, bitterness in his voice, “my father hated me. Even if I was his son. Even if I was his first clutch. Do you honestly think that makes a difference in this?”

In that moment, he loathed Kairoz. He scowled at the Bronze and his hourglass. That vision had been almost perfect in dismantling Wrathion’s point further. Had Kairoz done that on purpose?

Why?

He felt the control seep from him, and though he tried to grab it, it was like trying to grab steam. It curled through his fingers, taunting him, as he stared at them all - and stared at the orb.

Orange. Bright orange.

Seeing Deathwing in the flesh - somewhat - had only infused him with a further dread that now he could not shake. And though the vision had been accidental, Sabellian remained smug and thoughtful, his eyes on Wrathion.

And in that moment, the Black Prince realized he’d walked into a trap.

“Ah. My last vision, I think.” He glanced at the orb. “The last one I’ll need. Show me Wrathion’s betrayal at Sik’vess.”

_No!_

Wrathion tried to look away as the vision unfolded. But he found his eyes pinned to the scene.

His heart grew cold as he saw the dark cavern of the three; the three Paragons; the cursed sculptures of Y’shaarj’s living body.

And then Left burst from the shadows. The fight seemed so much quicker than it had at that moment. Then, Wrathion had nearly been possessed. Then, Wrathion had tasted real fear.

He turned away when he saw himself grab the extra dagger from Left’s belt - but he could not block the sound of Sabellian’s wet choked gasp as he was stabbed. He glanced up, bile threatening his throat, as he saw his past self pull the weapon from the other dragon’s gut.

 _I killed him_. The thought was numb on his tongue. The feelings of confliction and confusion that had followed him in those next days returned to him now as past-Sabellian spit out the words:

“Truly a black dragon.”

He hissed and closed his eyes. _He saved my life and I still slaughtered him when he couldn’t fight back._ The shame he had bottled up, the doubt at such a kill, now felt like poison in his veins. He hated Sabellian. But seeing the “murder” again, hearing the words - he knew what Sabellian had meant by them. The betrayal had set him into the legacy Obsidia had wanted to return to. Of manipulation, of death, of backstabbing. A black dragon indeed. A black dragon who had wanted to separate himself from that legacy and had only succeeded in embracing it without conscious effort.

Seeing Sabellian maddened in the prior vision had only made it more obvious to Wrathion that his uncle would not become that any time soon. Seeing Deathwing hate Sabellian cemented within him an awful kinship with the alchemist that he loathed.

When he opened his eyes, he didn’t need to look at the orb to know he’d lost. All his doubts flooded into him now, unleashed, breathed out by the dark pit he teetered on.

But look at the orb he did, with slow, dead eyes. It swirled like a globe, a bright fire-orange and spinning with chi symbols.

“The challenge is done,” Xuen boomed. “Sabellian wins the Strength of Wills.”

  
  
  


 


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It updates! I struggled a lot with how to go about this next part - as you see with how long it took. But I finally figured how to get out the kinks. As always, your comments and love are so important to me and mean so much. They help fuel this story. Thank you!

 

 

 

Sabellian pulled the hood closer over his head.

The dry heat was welcome after so much time at sea, but the dragon couldn’t focus enough to enjoy it. He stared up at the mountain with a grimness that felt stark even on his face.

If the newest reports were correct, Samia and the others were in there.

Crunched footsteps came from his right. He didn’t look over. Only one person would dare intrude.

“So?” he prompted.

“Agents were right,” Rexxar said. “I managed to track the trail to the Spire’s pass.”

Sabellian sniffed.

“And you’re sure it was him?”

Rexxar grunted. He came up to stand at his side. Misha wasn’t with him. “I saw him in Pandaria with the Dragonmaw. He lacked their markings and saddles, but I remember his visage. Yes. It was him.”

Sabellian glanced at the half-orc. Only yesterday the hunter had taken off the bandages from his scuffle with the Dragonmaw two weeks ago. What was left were scars, ripping all across Rexxar’s bare chest.

“Alone?”

“Alone.” Rexxar looked at the mountain. It reached so high the jagged top touched the clouds of ash that misted along the gorge’s sky; the clouds themselves cast a red and black hue on an even redder and blacker landscape. It almost looked like home. “No other tracks.”

He frowned, thoughtful as he was aggravated. No Samia, no Vaxian.

But that didn’t mean they weren’t here.

He knew they were.

“I suppose those Agents are good for something,” Sabellian said. “Send word to that orc and have her ready some of his little underlings for the trap.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.” Sabellian looked skyward. It was late afternoon, but the sun lay obscured under the ash-clouds. Unlike Blade’s Edge, the Searing Gorge had a perpetual darkness to it. “The longer we linger, the longer Serinar has to realize we’re here, or for them to relocate. Or both.” He curled his lip. “Especially after the idiot insisted we bring so many of his Agents.”

“Necessary,” Rexxar pointed out.

“And cumbersome. Mortals smell to dragons. The more there are, the more scents Serinar and the others will find.”

Rexxar shrugged one large shoulder.

They stood in silence. Sabellian ran his fingers down the collar affixed to his neck. It was becoming a habit of his since he’d put it on right before arriving to the Gorge two days ago. Though it inhibited his draconic form, the smooth feel of the metal had a calming quality.

Rexxar looked at the collar. His expression didn’t change. “Anything?”

Sabellian dropped his hand. Irritation bubbled in his chest. Every glance that his travelling companions had given him, every slight wince they’d done when he moved too fast or snapped, he’d caught as quickly as only the self-conscious did. It’d gotten somewhat better the longer he hadn’t snapped and killed them all, at least.

“Nothing,” he said dismissively. He’d told no one of his dreams, either.

It’d stay that way.

“I’ll have Misha send for Left, then.”

Sabellian stared at at the mountain known as Blackrock for a moment longer, then shook his head. “No. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll go to speak with her. I know she’s at camp - and no doubt the boy is there as well. Come.”

He moved past the Beastmaster. “We hunt the fool down,” Sabellian continued as he made his way down the rocky slope of the smaller mountain, back down to their camp at ground level. “If he’s alone, it’s our only chance before he skulks back into the mountain - and who knows when we shall have another chance to corner him.”

Corner him, torture him, force him to tell them where his children were. No matter what it took.

\---

_Two weeks earlier._

 

“Sabellian wins the Trial of Will.”

Silence – a silence of victory so sweet Sabellian savored it like a fresh heart.

He looked Wrathion. The Black Prince stood frozen, face ashen and his eyes red with shock. Stupid boy. He'd fallen into Sabellian's game far easier than the alchemist had expected.

Such was ego.

Xuen padded over to the orb, where it glowed orange and bright in the center of the Celestial Court. Each footfall scuffed loud against the quiet, so hushed was the entirety of the arena. He raised one massive paw over the ball.

“And to the victor goes the spoils,” he said, voice booming out along the Court. “The Black Prince must renounce his title, cease the suffering of Sabellian's brood, and return with him to Blade's Edge to face the judgment of his remaining family.” As he spoke, the orb began to spin, quick and then quicker, until it began to dissolve into ribbons of light which swirled around one another like a swarm of butterflies.

The White Tiger looked at Sabellian.

“Do you accept?”

“I accept.”

Xuen nodded. He swept his claws through the ribbons.

They shot away, quick as a firework – right toward Wrathion. The prince only had time to widen his eyes and take one step back before the ribbons of energy surrounded him. They locked together, cocoon-like, shielding the dragon from view.

The orc bodyguard cried out in anger and alarm. She smashed the butt of her rifle against the energy – and only succeeded in being thrown back. Snaps of light popped inside the shield.

All at once, the ribbons slowed in their mad dance. As quick as they had come, they dissolved into pieces of starlight.

Kneeling on the ground was Wrathion. He curled into himself and groaned.

No longer did he wear the illustrious garb of desert royalty. Instead, his clothes were plain: a white tunic and baggy deep-purple pants similar to the old, without all of the gold decoration.

The orc rushed over and knelt down to him. She managed to help him to his feet. Wrathion had a gaunt look on his face, and his eyes were distant and searching. He swayed once. Then he looked at Sabellian.

Little fool.

He didn’t hesitate: he walked over. The crowd murmured from beyond; he ignored them. Let them talk. The theatrics, the dramatics, were over. He wanted his prize.

Left looked up and snarled, tusks flashing.

“You'll be coming with me then, boy,” Sabellian said.

“So you can kill him without all of these people seeing, lizard?” Left spat. “I won't let -”

Wrathion put up a hand. Slowly - slowly - he looked up. His eyes were glassy, pained; he never took his eyes off of Sabellian. Exhaustion and something like resolution settled on the young dragon's face.

“It's fine, Left,” he said. “We'll go with him.”

“My Prince -”

“I'm not supposed to be called that anymore, remember?” Wrathion smiled a terse smile, and there, at last, was the bitterness on his expression. “If he wanted to kill me, he already would have.”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow.

“So I would have,” he repeated. He glanced at the orc, frowned, and looked back at Wrathion. Odd. Where was the tantrum that he'd been expecting Wrathion to unleash? “Only this one is allowed to follow. No others. And certainly not the mortal prince. He'll talk us all in circles.” Even from afar he could feel Anduin's need to preach at them both; the boy stood at the very edge of the arena, watching. Titans help them all if he was allowed to get close.

Wrathion grit his teeth.

“Fine.”

Sabellian looked up and nodded at Rexxar. The half-orc grunted. He moved forward to stand behind Wrathion and Left. Misha skulked off to the side. The once-prince glanced at them nervously.

“Good,” Sabellian said. “Now follow. Don't mind the bears. They're just there to keep you on the right path.”

He turned and started out of the Court. Footsteps followed.

A hundred eyes watched them go – but their gazes and hushed conversation, and not even Xuen's watching look, could come close to unnerving the dragon. For Sabellian had finished what he'd come here to do – in a way that let himself feel right. Feel good. Feel _vindicated._

The only thing that itched him was the visions Wrathion had summoned. Things he hadn’t wanted to see again. Things and people he hadn’t wanted to bring up.

His Father.

Anger rumbled at his chest, and he redirected it at the ex-Prince.

Yes - he'd brought Wrathion to his knees. Shown him his brood's suffering. Stripped him of his title and reputation in front of champions who would spread the word, as mortals tended to do.

Yes – death would have been an easy strike. Too easy, for someone who had taken even more children away from him.

Too easy indeed.

\---

The walk back to the cave was as grim and quiet as a funeral procession.

The more they walked, the more Sabellian grew a bizarre mix of angry and smug. Angry at the visions; smug because he’d won.

By the time the cave came into view, Misha had taken up the rear and Rexxar the side. The Beastmaster kept casting glances at Sabellian – enough that it began to grate on him.

“What?” he snapped.

Rexxar paused, then looked away and shook his head.

Sabellian shot him a glare.

He stopped in front of the cave entrance.

“Wrathion and I will be speaking alone,” he said.

Left went to protest, but Wrathion beat her to speaking.

“Fine.”

Sabellian gave a curt nod. Rexxar was staring at him again. The dragon bared his teeth, turned, and swept into the cave.

The lanterns they'd lit before leaving had gone out. With a wave of his hand, he set them to blazing, and fire burst hot and bright, sending shadows scattering and bobbing.

He waited until he heard footsteps behind him: footsteps wary and silent. Sabellian crossed his arms over his chest and glanced back, but did not turn.

“I confess,” Sabellian said, “I expected your reaction to the loss more... volatile.” He turned to face the boy and frowned.

Wrathion glared.

“Now, boy: listen to me. You’re going to do me a favor with your new oath.”

 

\----

 

Sabellian and Rexxar made their way down the slope. Their encampment was nestled at the base, hidden underneath an outcrop of rock from aerial view.

Glimpses of shadows skulked at the corner of his eyes. Wrathion, despite his initial reluctance, had smoothed into his role with a vehemence that bordered on vengeful. The boy couldn't do anything about his situation, so apparently he was going about it aggressively, summoning all the power his Agents provided – and that included summoning a lot of Agents. A lot of them; a flashy amount. Wrathion was either trying to show he still had some semblance of control with the flourish of power, or was just trying to get this over with as quickly as possible by pushing all of his resources into it.

It was probably both.

They reached the camp. Two Agents stood at attention, but moved out of the way without so much as a glance or a word in their direction. Sabellian and Rexxar swept by them.

It was a small camp, hastily erected underneath the outcrop. A fire popped in the center and some bedrolls and a portable table surrounded it.

At the table stood Left. She looked up as they approached. Her face gave nothing away.

“Rexxar filled you in,” she said. It was not a question.

“We won't have long to corner him.” Sabellian moved to the other end of the table. A map and a scattering of documents, all scrawled in different hand, littered the surface. At the far end were some vials filled with reagents and herbs he'd laid out earlier; within one lay what looked to be a clump of dead grass, blackened by heat. He eyed it. “Where is the boy?”

“Checking on the scouts on the northern edge of the mountain,” Left said. She hadn't warmed up to him at all; her tone remained a growly sort of snap that he ignored. He wasn't here to make friends. “Nevermind.”

He looked up at her and followed her eyes to the sky, where a blur of black swept down from the clouds. Wrathion slowed as he approached. He'd grown a little, some of his limbs a little longer and his face a little more angular. He alighted at the edge of the camp and in a rush of smoke, transformed into his human guise.

“So?” Sabellian said.

Wrathion stared at him with a bored expression. “So what?”

“Your scouts?”

The ex-prince smoothed back his hair. He'd – somewhere – found a brown leather coat that covered the slightness of his body. Most likely one of the Agents he'd called in had fetched it for him.

“They've flanked the pass,” he said. “Are you certain that that little bit will work?”

“If I wasn't, I wouldn't have suggested it.” Sabellian reached over and flicked his fingernail on the vial of the dead-grass. It gave off a delicate _ping_. “It's more than enough. As long as your Agents are set correctly in place.”

Wrathion frowned. He eyed the vial. “They'll do _just_ fine.” He slid his eyes over to Rexxar. “But a tool is only as good as the directions it's given.”

Rexxar grunted. “I won't fail.”

“Of course he won't,” Sabellian grumbled, glaring at Wrathion. He'd grown a little more confident since the beach and he wasn't sure if he liked it better or not. At least it made him seem more clear-headed and not a mopey child. “We go now.”

Left and Wrathion stared at him. “Now?” the orc said. “We have to arm the -”

Sabellian put up his hand to silence her. Slowly, he straightened then grabbed the vial. He tipped it up and down; the grass inside plunked back and forth with the motion. He watched it. “As I said: we won't have long. The Searing Gorge has enough prey here for him to hunt and hunt quickly, then feed quickly. He'll skulk back to wherever he's been hiding within the hour.” He put the vial in his robe. His hand brushed against the warmth of his charm.

No one still knew about that.

“We go now.”

 

\---

 

“You want me to find your children for you?”

Sabellian had explained what he wanted Wrathion to do, and he liked the boy’s bewildered expression very much.

He smiled tersely.

“You were able to find the dragons hiding from your assassins well enough,” he drawled. “This should be easy for you.”

Wrathion ran a hand through his hair. The boy looked ragged around the edges; to Sabellian, he looked like a sheep whose wool had been sheared for the first time. He had that sort of shocked look about him and the lack of his elaborate clothing only solidified the image.

“You… you did all of that… just to force me to be your _bloodhound_?” Wrathion drew himself up and bared his teeth. “That wasn’t even part of the bet! You took my title away from me, you forced me to stop killing them, but -”

“Wrong.” Sabellian put up a hand to stop the boy from speaking any more. “I said you had to face my children for their own judgement. But how are you supposed to meet them if they’re not all there?”

“But that’s not -”

“You can ask Xuen, if you’d like,” Sabellian cut in smoothly. “You needn’t worry; I asked him all the details before I started the Trial. The Tiger said it was up to the oath-taker to do anything possible to bring about his duties.” He smiled stiffly. “Which means you have to find my children, first. Understand, now?”

Wrathion grew more and more pale. His little burst of anger vanished like a flame blown out on a candle wick; all that was left was that remaining shock and disbelief again.

“You have a network of spies around the globe,” Sabellian continued when the boy didn’t speak. “You have access to your earth powers so you can sense the dragons. Yes. I cornered you in front of mortals and humiliated you. I’m forcing you to help those you’ve wanted to kill. And I am taking _much pleasure_ in it.”

How good it felt to have his plans come to fruition so smoothly.

Wrathion chewed on his bottom lip. He seemed to look through Sabellian, and the dragon saw the dozens of ideas flash desperately behind the boy’s eyes as he thought of ways to get out of this and fail. The whelp stood there long enough, frozen, that Sabellian’s satisfaction felt all the sweeter.

Finally, Wrathion’s shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth.

Defeat.

“And you’re going to kill me afterward?” he asked, but didn’t look up.

“No.” Sabellian shrugged. “I don’t want to kill you anymore. I realized just how little I cared about you to sink to your level of killing without thought.” He glanced Wrathion up and down. “And leaving you alive with your guilt and psychological damage is much more rewarding to me.”

Wrathion looked at him.

“I hate you.”

“I don’t care. Now go.” He waved a hand, dismissing his new tool. “Get all of the Agents to look for Samia, Vaxian, and Pyria. Find them fast, and you won’t have to deal with me ever again - and that, I promise you.”

 

\---

 

“You want me to go home?”

Sabellian sighed. He hadn’t thought this was going to be as difficult as it was turning out.

“Nasandria. I know all you’ve wanted to do since we arrived is to leave for Blade’s -”

“I’m not going to leave when we’re about to go look for my siblings,” she said. She flushed at her interruption, then shook herself out and crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to go home, but not when -”

“Listen, girl.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Nasandria went still. They were outside of the cave, and alone; Rexxar had gone to guard (or, in his words, “keep an eye on”) Wrathion while the boy went to collect some last-minute details from his Agents. “You’ve been through enough. What you are going to do is listen to me and _go home_. You’re going to let the brood know that the Prince is taken care of. You’re going to let them know what we’re still doing here. And then you’re going to tell them they shouldn’t be fretting over me.”

Sabellian stared down at her until she looked away. She was his child; she would obey. The leader of a brood had that sort of respect. It wasn’t like some flimsy human family.

“As you say,” she murmured.Though she had averted her eyes, he saw a softening of relief in her gaze. He appreciated her attempt to hide it.

He hesitated, then let go of her.

“We are lucky the Agents tracked Serinar to the Searing Gorge,” he said. “Familiar territory. I know most crevices and caves there, and Blackrock was your Uncle’s lair.” Something he didn’t fancy himself going into, but if he had to - for his children - he would. “It shall be easy to corner them.”

A day ago, Wrathion’s Agent, Left, had come to him explaining they had found traces of black dragon there. Black dragons. And one had seen Serinar.

Samia and Vaxian had last been seen with Serinar. If he was there… then they were too.

Pyria, however, remained a mystery.

“That Bronze has the portal schedule,” he said stiffly, feeling, at once, somewhat awkward. “She’ll accompany you to make sure you take the right one. Don’t shift out of your human guise until you take the path from Shattrah into the Terrokar Forest. The northern route, not the eastern. Arakkoa have too many encampments in the latter. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Father… you’re sure about this Wrathion business, too?” She looked up at him, bangs hanging over her eyes.

“Very. Trust me, girl.”

She stared at him. Then she frowned, and the snap of her voice took him off guard. “And the Old Gods?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“How are you going to do that?”

He scowled. “Nasandria -”

“Just - wait. I have something.”

She turned and rushed into the cave - not without tripping and stumbling to catch herself on a clump of roots.

She disappeared inside. Sabellian heaved a sigh.

What could she possibly -

Nasandria reappeared within the next moment. She clutched her satchel in her arm. Sabellian watched her approach, one eyebrow perked.

“Kalecgos, he -... he gave me this before we left the Temple,” she explained. She undid the clasp and reached in. When she pulled out the silver collar, Sabellian narrowed his eyes.

“And why would he give you that?”

She looked at him. They both knew why, but she said it anyway. “For you. Just in case.”

He eyed the collar. He’d loathed the thing at the Temple: the feeling of constriction, of confinement. A confinement needed just in case he went mad again. In case he tried to shift into his true form and slaughter everyone in his path.   
He sighed quietly.

“Give it to me.”

Nasandria nodded and handed it over. Her eyes never left the collar; she did not raise them to watch him.

Sabellian spun the thing over in his hands. The light didn’t catch the slick metal, as if it absorbed it, not reflected it. Power tingled at his fingers where they touched it.

“I suppose it will be of use,” he muttered. “In case something goes wrong.”

She shrugged. “It’s better than nothing.”

He said a quick word of power, and the collar disappeared in a whisk of arcane. He brushed his hands off and looked at her. “Thank you.”

She smiled warily.

“There is one other thing, Nasandria,” he said. “Before you leave.”

The drake straightened. “Yes?”

“I want you to go find where Talsian’s remains are: the cave in Kun’lai.” He put her hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Those bones don’t deserve to be in the cold. Bring them home.”

Nasandria’s face fell, and she nodded.

“I’ll make sure of it, Father.” And she bowed her head.

Sabellian nodded. “Good. Now, go find Chromie. With any luck, I shall see you soon, with Samia and the others in tow.”

The drake hesitated. Then she threw herself forward and embraced him.

Sabellian startled and stiffened up. A hug was such a human gesture...

But he returned it all the same.

“No, go on, then, girl. Go.” Sabellian let go and waved her off.

She looked a little flustered, but, on seeing Sabellian wasn’t angry, smiled one last time and nodded.

“Good luck, Father. And be careful.”

 

\---

 

 

The day before they were set to leave, Sabellian received a visitor.

He had begun going through supplies for the journey when Misha began rumbling at the cave entrance. Rexxar had only just left to buy water flasks at the Market courts, so he could not be back so early.

Sabellian glanced over. His mood dropped.

“Prince Wrynn,” the dragon greeted. “Why are you here?”

Anduin stood at the opening, eyeing Misha. The bear sat to the side. She made no move to bar him from entering, but she didn’t make him welcome, either.

“Ah…” Anduin looked at him. “I was hoping to speak with you.”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow. He didn’t seek Wrathion, then. Interesting. And suspicious.

“Leave him be, Misha,” Sabellian said. “Let the boy in.”

The bear flicked an ear, grunted, and rose. She thumped away and sat at the other end of the cave.

Anduin entered, and only then did Sabellian see that the boy held a small pouch.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. He looked around. “You’re alone?”

“Would you like me to be?”

Anduin frowned and glanced at him; for a moment he looked startled. Then he smiled. “Not necessarily.”

Sabellian grunted. He turned back to his supplies, cast all over the slab etched into the wall. He picked through dried rations, health potions, and gauze. “What is it, then? If you’ve come to ask me to let go of Wrathion’s debt, I’m afraid you’ll just be wasting your words.”

“It’s not that.” Anduin sat on one of the only chairs in the cave. It was big enough to hold Rexxar, so it engulfed the Prince.

Anduin began looking around again. Sabellian watched him from the corner of his eye. It felt as if the boy was having trouble focusing on him for very long. To be fair, the last time the two had spoken alone was when he had Anduin captive under Sik’vess. He glanced at where he had scoured the fel dagger across the boy’s eye, though any scar that might have been there was hidden by the long sleeves he wore.

“Then what is it?” Sabellian pressed impatiently.

“You’re leaving.”

“Yes. Who told you that?”

Anduin shifted in his seat. “I overheard your daughter. Nasandria?”

The suspicion came back at once. Sabellian rumbled, set down a handful of rations he’d been sifting through for packing, and turned to face Anduin.

“Go on, boy. Say what you’re here for.”

Anduin smiled again. It seemed tired, and reached his eyes in the vaguest sense.

“I was at the Celestial Court last night, speaking with Chi-ji. Nasandria came to speak with the rest of the Celestials.” He tilted his head. “It’s when I learned you were leaving.”

And what could she have wanted from the Celestials? He stared at Anduin in silence, bidding him to continue with the intent of his stare.

“I don’t mean to… ‘tell’ on her,” he said, and watched Sabellian’s face carefully. “But she was asking them to help you. Because you’re leaving the island.”

The unsaid lay like a thin ice between them. Sabellian frowned.

“I saved Chi-ji, once,” Anduin continued when Sabellian remained silent. “The Celestials… they have a strange concept of debt. They don’t expect anyone to repay them, but if they owe you something, they will give you any favor you ask for.”

“How generous,” Sabellian drawled.

“I asked him for something that would help.” The boy undid the strings on the pouch and upended its contents into his palm.

It was a necklace. Its gold chain spilled over Anduin’s hand, and shining in his palm lay a charm. It was in the shape of a crane’s arching head and neck. A glow emanated from it.

“Chi-ji is the Celestial of Hope,” Anduin said. “He blessed it with some of his essence. It’ll act as barrier against the Old Gods.” He looked up at Sabellian, his eyes careful, calculating. “But the stronger your will is, the stronger the charm will be. So Chi-ji said, at least.”

Sabellian stared at it.

Then he laughed.

“Very thoughtful of you, little prince,” he said. “But some little good-luck charm isn’t going to scare Them away.”

The boy frowned. It scrunched up his face. “Chi-ji isn’t a regular being,” he said, intent, this time. “He’s a Wild God. He’s connected to Azeroth like all the others. Maybe it won’t completely stop it - but it will help. I promise you.”

“You seem awfully confident.”

“That’s because I am.”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow. Having confidence didn’t mean he was right.

Anduin sighed and closed his fingers over the charm. He collected the chain up from where it hung down. “I know why you might not believe me. If it helps… he told me he also infused some of this island’s magic in its blessing.”

That got his attention. “Oh?” Again he looked down at the charm, even though it was now hidden beneath Anduin’s fingers. For a moment, an almost weary sort of hope warmed at him. He grunted and brushed it away.

“Yes,” Anduin said. “And, think about it: you bet whatever you planned on Xuen forcing Wrathion to keep his bet. And it looks like it worked. If Xuen has such power, don’t you think Chi-ji does, too?” Anduin scooted forward on his chair a little. Such intensity in such a young thing. “Please trust me. I’ve seen what Chi-ji can do. Azeroth isn’t only the Old Gods. It’s him, too. And Xuen and Niuzao and Yu’lon. Goldrinn… Cenarius… even Elune.”

So intent and so hopeful. It was so hard not to feel hope when this boy spoke. Sabellian frowned at him.

“Why did Chi-ji do this for you? What did you do for him?”

“I saved him during a Sha attack on his Temple.”

“You used a debt… to try to help me?” Sabellian squinted, suspicious. “What do you want from me?”

Anduin blinked, then shook his head. “The only thing I want to do is to help.”

He extended his hand, opening his fingers and offering the pendant. “Please. Take it.”

Should he even be surprised, even suspicious, about this strange human? No one _really_ did anything for free.

This was Anduin Wrynn, though.

He crossed his arms over his chest.

“You just want to help,” he repeated. “Even after all I did to you and the whelp. How well did that gash heal, boy?”

Anduin’s eyes hardened. “I try not to hold grudges,” he said. “But I do have a good memory. I saw how much Nasandria cared when she asked the Celestials for help. And how scared she looked for you.” He withdrew his arm and averted his eyes. He stared at the floor, thoughtful, intent even still. “Someone needed help and I knew I could give it to them. And… I grew up with Onyxia. I don’t want anyone to become like her if I can help it. Without choice or the will to be good instead.”

The more Anduin spoke the more reliable he became. The more truthful.

“Very noble of you,” Sabellian muttered. “Even if the enchantment doesn’t work.” And it would be nice to have something to cling to beside the collar. He heaved a sigh and beckoned with his hand. Anduin smiled and handed the charm over.

It was warm against even his gloves. Sabellian studied it and turn it over. The same profile winked up at him; both sides of the crane had watching eyes which glinted at him in the dull light of the cave.

But holding it… something about it felt… precious. Real. Something otherworldly, and yet, something familiar. He frowned.

Perhaps this was something: something more than a good-luck charm.

“I wonder what she would have been like if she had a choice, too,” he said, almost to himself. He eyed Anduin. “She was truly despicable. And yet… so was I. As you surely saw at the Trial.”

Andun smiled, the gesture forced. “It’s… hard to think about.”

“So it is.” Sabellian looked down at the charm again. He wrapped his fingers around it, sighed, then set it down near his other supplies.

He turned to Anduin.

“Does that leg still bother you?”

Anduin blinked.

“Why do you ask?” the prince said. Now it was his turn to look suspicious.

“I can’t accept this without giving something in return,” Sabellian explained. “I don’t like having debts over my head.”

“You really don’t have to -”

“Yes, actually. I do.” Sabellian turned and rummaged around in his pile of supplies until he’d found a roll of parchment he’d bought yesterday to take notes on during the journey. He tore off a small piece and found a stick of charcoal near the fire. “You’re still in pain. You were limping when you came in.” He began jotting down ingredients.

“I… yes. I’m still injured.”

He wasn’t saying everything, but Sabellian could work with the admission, at least.

“And you’ll be in pain for a long time with that sort of injury,” Sabellian said. Soon, nearly a dozen ingredients listed down the parchment. “This is a pain-eater elixir of my own make. It’s very strong. Very adaptable.” He continued to write, but this time, steps to make it. “Give this to your alchemists - someone who really knows what they’re doing, understood? No amateur. This is an advanced potion.”

After a quick glance, he nodded, rolled up the parchment, and handed it to Anduin.

The prince stared at it. He took gingerly.

“It’s not poison,” Sabellian said gruffly.

Anduin laughed. “No, no. I didn’t think of that.” He tilted his head and looked at the scroll for a moment longer before glancing up at the dragon. “I’ll get this to someone in Stormshield. Thank you.”

Sabellian shrugged. “As I said: I don’t like owing debts.”

“Well… and like I said, it wasn’t a debt.” He smiled quietly. “But you’re just going to keep ignoring that.”

“Clearly.” It was near duty-bound for a dragon to repay a favor, and if he did a favor on someone else’s behalf, well, he expected them to pay up later. Dragons didn’t give anything away for free.

And yet… what an odd boy. To give something so precious and expect nothing in return - truly. Not a ploy, not a scheme to get a debt from a powerful dragon. He realized, staring at the boy, that Anduin truly meant what he said: he’d just done it to be kind.

An odd boy indeed.

Anduin stood and slipped the roll in his satchel. “I should go,” he said.

“Slip past your babysitters again?”

Anduin shot him a look, but he flushed a little. “They’re not happy with me, no,” he explained, then relaxed. He studied Sabellian’s face. “I do hope the charm works. And that you find what you’re looking for.”

“As do I, Prince Anduin,” the dragon replied. He paused, and before he could think better of it, said: “Do take my apologies for Sik’vess. I did what I had to.”

Anduin raised an eyebrow, but it only took him a moment to smile slightly and nod. “Right. I won’t say it didn’t hurt, but… thank you for apologizing.”

Sabellian wrinkled his nose. He shooed the boy again. “Alright. Go on then.”

Anduin sighed and moved toward the cave entrance. Misha watched him. Before he left, he paused and looked back.

“And don’t be too hard on Wrathion. He’s just… misguided.”

“We’ll see.”

Anduin watched him. He nodded.

“Good luck.”

Then he was gone.

 

\---

 

 

In the middle of the journey, they spent the night on a small isle in the middle of the Great Sea.

Sabellian had a difficult time sleeping. The others had nodded off hours ago - save for the lookout who hid in the thicket of the trees bunched tight around them.

It was deep night when he finally gave up on sleep. Perhaps a walk around would dull his anxious mind. Or maybe all the sea-salt would - or just do the opposite. He could feel the damned stuff crusting around his hair.

He stood and stretched. No one stirred around the fire, which had begun to die down. Once he’d brushed off most of the sand from his robe, he waved a hand and rekindled the embers. The charcoal popped and hissed. He watched the flames before moving away.

He walked.

It was a small island; if it weren’t for all the copse of trees, he’d be able to see the end of the isle.

The journey had been uneventful. They had left early in the morning to skirt the mortal crowd of the day’s market and adventures. One unforseen plus was they avoided the air traffic of those arriving to the Isle. Stretching his wings to a free sky was, for that moment, better than any feeling, even if his body still ached from his injuries.

They’d pushed hard the first three days until they reached the more expansive stretches of the Great Sea. By then, both Rexxar and one of Wrathion’s senior Agents had recommended they hop from island to island to help replenish supplies and keep the party rested. It was better than making the mistake many others had: pushing over the Great Sea until exhaustion hit, and finding nowhere to land below.

It made things slower, but it would have to do. That, and if he got too weak…

As he walked, he touched the pendant hanging from his neck. When around the others, he tucked it underneath his turtleneck; no one yet knew of it. They didn’t need to - though he wasn’t an unobservant fool, and saw the glances the Agents in particular through him whenever he snapped or lost his temper for a moment. They feared the moment he would lose it.

So did he. And yet, nothing.

Ever since leaving the island: nothing. Not even a hint of a whisper had yet to reach him. Was it dumb luck? Did he still have residual magic from the island hindering them? Or was it the charm? It was warm under his fingertips, even when he was wearing gloves. It seemed too easy. Too good to pass.

And yet…

He frowned and shook his head, then let go of the charm. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down, now more than ever. If he grew too complacent, his guard would go down, and then things would go downhill fast. Perhaps it was the warding of the charm mixed with his own stubborn will that kept them at bay. Hadn’t Anduin mentioned something like that?

He exited the copse of trees and found himself on a wide stretch of beach.

Sitting there at the shore was Wrathion.

Sabellian raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t noticed the boy had been absent from the fire. Then again, he hadn’t paid much attention to the ex-Prince since they’d left the Isle. Wrathion gave him little reason to, anyway. The boy had been deathly quiet most of the time.

For a moment he toyed with the idea of finding somewhere else to go. Then he shrugged that off and approached.

Wrathion tilted his head, but didn’t look back.

“Sleep couldn’t find you?”

“No.”

Wrathion sounded tired. He didn’t look at Sabellian, even when the elder dragon stood right beside him.

He glanced down. The boy stared out at the ocean with a distant expression, his face unreadable. It was the same expression he’d worn throughout most of the trip: an expression of thoughtfulness and glassiness, a mix of intentness and self-preservation that seemed oddly familiar to him in a way he couldn’t place.

Sabellian looked away and stared out at the sea: a dark expanse as black as both their scales. The moon was waxing, a sliver in the sky. Among those thousands of stars was his home. Somewhere. He sighed to himself, a sound so quiet that he hardly heard it on his own. He wondered if the whelps had grown any.

“Can’t you go stand somewhere else?” Wrathion said.

“What happened to your silence?”

Wrathion screwed his face up and let out a slow sigh. He relaxed when the last of his breath left him. He shuffled his shoulders.

“I hardly see why you brought me in the first place,” he said, “if you loathe me so much.”

“I don’t trust you alone, boy.”

“The Celestial bound me to this,” the dragon said. His words came out flat, lacking the punch of his usual attitude. “It’s not like I can do anything else.”

“Even bound by an oath, I don’t trust you.” He looked out to the sea again: the great expanse of black glass. “The last time I was foolish enough to, you stabbed me in the gut and left me to die.”

A flash of paleness spread over Wrathion’s face.

Silence spread between them.

“You never mentioned how you managed to survive that,” Wrathion said at last in a low voice.

“Because I never offered the explanation.”

Wrathion finally looked at him, though only sidelong; a glance, nothing more. He didn’t even move his head.

“I wanted to kill you so badly my hatred let me live through it until I could be healed.” Sabellian looked down at the boy.

“Oh.” Wrathion stared at him, nodded slowly, then looked away, as if it made perfect sense. “All of it for me? How flattering.”

“And all of _this_ is because of you,” Sabellian snapped. “You stupid whelp.”

Wrathion wrinkled his nose but, to Sabellian’s surprise, didn’t rise up to argue. He picked at his sleeves and continued staring out at sea.

When the ex-Prince didn’t speak again, Sabellian again looked up to the night sky. They would make it to the shore of the Eastern Kingdoms in a day and a half. From the Westfall coast, they’d make their way northeast until they reached the Searing Gorge: the place where Wrathion’s Agents had tracked down traces of black dragons.

The Searing Gorge. He’d grown up there, though then, it had been a nameless place. His hatching cave was nestled somewhere in those rocks - and just beyond the range was Blackrock Mountain, the lair of his dead brother. Did Nefarian’s bones still rot underneath the ground?

“I did panic.”

“What?”

The suddenness of it had Sabellian instinctually glaring down at Wrathion. The whelp busied himself by picking at some dirt caught in his shirt.

“That first drake,” Wrathion said. “I saw her and I panicked. So I forced that Blood Elf to kill her.” He raised his eyes to Sabellian. “One of your children had mangled it, but I made him do it anyway. I felt his agony. I didn’t care.”

They stared at one another for a moment before Wrathion looked back at the water.

“So. You were right. With what you said at the Trial. I panicked.” He sighed. “Usually I’m much smarter than that. I’m supposed to be a dragon of tact and cunning! What a bad first impression…”

Was this his way of… apologizing? The boy had a tone which held a sense of drag to it, as if he was close to saying something just beyond his range of voice.

“I should have thought,” he continued with the same tone. “I felt her die.” He didn’t look at him. “I should have thought.”

If it was an apology it was a bad one, but - perhaps, for their kind, it was still an apology. The pride of a Black Dragon was one of their greatest downfalls.

So perhaps it was enough. An apology, however vague, was still one all the same.

Sabellian rumbled in response. Wrathion frowned.

When Sabellian finally left, he left the boy alone, still staring at the sea. Watching.

 

\----

 

“Did Deathwing treat all his children like that?”

“Excuse me?”

They were camped on the hills of Westfall. Sabellian was sitting against a tree, picking at the remains of cow ribs. A yard away, Wrathion looked through some various reports his Agents had given him before they’d landed to eat. Rexxar and Left were hunting for some more game.

“The vision.” Wrathion tilted his head but didn’t look up. He flipped through another report. “You were afraid of him.”

Sabellian grit his teeth. He had the sudden urge to kick the boy down the hill, but withheld it.

“He liked Nefarian and Onyxia much more than me.”

“Mm.”

Sabellian snorted smoke. He’d reburied that memory again, and the boy just had to bring it up?

“Is there a reason you asked, or are you just trying to annoy me?”

Wrathion shrugged. He wrote something down on one of the reports and set it aside.

“Curiousity.”

The boy had grown a trite more talkative since they’d spoken on the beach, but not much. He only seemed to speak to Sabellian. It bothered him. Why did the whelp want to talk to him more?

Sabellian grunted and peeled off a strip of fatty meat from the ribs. “He was not someone you wanted to be your father, boy,” he rumbled. “Which is why you’re lucky not to truly be his child.”

Wrathion eyed him.

He looked back down and didn’t speak up again. They took flight an hour later.

 

 

\---

 

He was in a place of darkness.

No ground, no sky, no horizon. And yet he still had the feeling of standing, of something beneath his feet.

He couldn’t feel the sensation of his body. Like he was made of air. Spectre.

_feel you_

_your fear_

_accept the gift_

_take it_

_take it_

_Take it_

_TAKE IT_

_TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKEITTAKEITTAKETTAKEITTAKEIT_

Then silence. Nothing.

A sensation of touch. A familiar feeling. Soft. Unsure. Something reaching toward him. It was the touch of a friend that hadn’t seen another in a long time. It was shy. And something about it scared him on a primal level. He jerked away.

The touch fell back. It was nervous. It? It. It. No. She. It was a she. He knew her. Remembered her from when he was young. A gentle, strong voice. Not his mother. Something deeper. Something below, but not Them. Near them. But not Them. Something that had tried to help him. To soothe when he was small. Something that had failed to ward against the others that had claimed him.

The presence lingered out of his field of vision. She remained, ready to approach again but not yet doing so.

He woke with hard breathing and the crane charm burning against his chest.

 

 

\---

 

They found Serinar right where Rexxar had seen him: the Spire’s Pass, leading from the Searing Gorge to Redridge.

Sabellian had positioned himself at the top of the cliffs bordering the Pass. The wind flickered hot against his face.

A little below him, one of Wrathion’s agents crouched in the crags. Others like her dotted the Pass, hidden from view. This included Wrathion himself and Rexxar, though he could not see either from here.

He lacked the surprise he’dt thought he’d have when he first took position and had seen Serinar below. But with how much he’d seen and had been through since leaving Outland, it was beginning to feel as if nothing could surprise him.

But there Serinar was. The dragon had indeed been hunting, and now gorged himself on the carcass. It was silent - so silent that even from so high the sounds of Serinar chewing and snapping bone were audible.

He’d only just begun to feed when they’d arrived; the timing could not have been more perfect. The smell and taste of blood would mask most scents to the dragon. It’d leave him vulnerable in his hunting-frenzy.

He may not have the surprise, but he did find it strange, almost bizarre, to see Serinar below. The dragon had briefly been under his command, and he knew that if anyone could survive the purge after the Cataclysm, it was him. The wyrm was overly cruel but cunning, with a knack for surviving when others did not.

And yet he’d been enslaved by the Dragonmaw. How had they gotten away? That was a question that still gnawed at them all.

But he didn’t have much time to think that over: Serinar jerked his head up from the carcass. A flap of muscle hung from his jaw.

He went still. His nostrils flared.

He’d sensed one of them. A shift in the wind.

Sabellian’s suspicions were realized when Serinar snapped open his wings and beat up into the sky. Dust and rock went flying, so frenzied was his sudden lift.

If he escaped, they might not find him again.

Sabellian didn’t hesitate: he undid the latch on the collar, threw it off to the side, and calmly off the side of the cliff. He transformed mid-fall.

The swath of his shadow fell over Serinar.

The other dragon glanced up. Fear flinched across his eyes before Sabellian smashed right into him, and the two went crashing toward the ground.

 


	37. Chapter 37

A/N: as always your comments and support mean the absolute WORLD to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I cannot express my gratitude enough for all the kind words; the fact you have taken the time out of your day to leave me such wonderful comments means more than I can say.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Sabellian and Serinar crashed into the ground with such force the rock cracked beneath them.

The smaller dragon shrieked. Sabellian had landed soundly atop him; the whole of his weight had smashed into the other. That and the sheer force of the fall had dealt Serinar a blow in the form of the scream and a crack of bone along his tail.

Serinar writhed underneath him. He snapped his teeth, snarled, kicked, but Sabellian did not let go.

Until Serinar kicked him in the belly, right where the stab wound had healed.

He grunted and fell back; it was all Serinar needed to push him away and off, and he lurched to his feet with all the gracefulness of a turtle getting upright from his shell.

Sabellian swept out his neck to block the next blow. It didn't come. He looked up.

Wrathion, shifted down into whelp form, had swept in. The boy scrabbled over Serinar's neck and head, sinking in bites and snaps at the tenderer flesh. It looked more obnoxious than it did painful, but Serinar tried to dislodge him, ignoring Sabellian entirely. He swung his head back and forth, roaring.

Sabellian stumbled up to his feet. He lunged forward to pin Serinar down again.

There was no need. The next time Serinar opened his mouth, Wrathion skittered down the length of his muzzle and tossed the herb Sabellian had prepared earlier.

Dragonsbane.

Too late did Serinar realize something had been put in his mouth. The dragon gushed fire, attempting to burn the herb on his tongue.

It did not burn. Though Serinar had closed his mouth, Sabellian did not have to see the herb to know.

Serinar stumbled. His head stopped shaking.

“Ah. I should be flattered!” he said. His words began to slur. He looked at Sabellian, hissed smoke -

And collapsed.

He did not move again, save for the steady up-down of his lungs.

Wrathion hopped from the dragon's head; he landed as a human. He wiped his hands off on Serinar's curling horn.

“That quick! Interesting,” the boy said, mystified. He rounded Serinar's muzzle and crouched to look inside the dragon's mouth, just open enough to see into.

“I told you it would be enough,” Sabellian said. His body still thrummed with adrenaline; his claws twitched for battle. He had expected that to go far different, even if he had ambushed Serinar from above. He took a deep breath, then another. “We could have used even half of that.” They should have, for Dragonsband was outrageously expensive as it was rare.

And half, yes, but half took more time to set in. Time they did not have and couldn't afford to lose.

At last the Agents arrived. They bound down from the slope with the speed of mountain goats, leaving him to wonder why they had no come to aid more quickly.

Unless they had. Mortals could be terribly slow.

“He shouldn't have been able to smell us,” said Left. She eyed Serinar.

“A shift in the wind,” Sabellian said. He shifted back into his human guise. His stomach ached. Badly. He hid his pain with a glare. “Here.”

He thrust out the collar only moments ago had been affixed to his own neck. Left snatched it.

Relief washed over his shoulders; he hadn't realized how much power the collar had been gripping onto him until then.

Left approached Serinar. As she grew close, the collar popped open. With a snap of her hand, she put the collar on Serinar's nose-horn.

At once, the dragon began to shift down. The dragon seemed to compact and fold in on himself until finally only a human lay crumpled before them. He wore a black and red robe, not even a fraction as elaborate as Sabellian's, and had a thick mane of hair. His face was pressed into the dirt. 

Two Agents snatched him up, where he hung between them like a poached deer.

“Take him to camp,” Wrathion said. “Let's _ hope _ Sabellian's right about this.”

 

 

* * *

 

As requested, a Blacktalon Agent let Sabellian know when Serinar began to stir.

He stood in front of the dragon, watching him wake. They had bound Serinar to a jagged piece of rock, where he had lay unconscious for three hours, bound up in chains and the collar still affixed to his neck.

Serinar groaned. At last, his eyes fluttered open. He looked around, bleary, without moving his head.

Until he fixed his eyes on Sabellian. He let out a low huff and creaked his head over to look at him. His eyes were an ochre red, though one was hidden behind his mop of hair.

Now that he could see his face, Sabellian had a moment of bad memories curl into his mind: memories of his days as Lieutenant, where for some time, Serinar had served beneath him before getting shuffled off to be the protector of the Obsidian Dragonshrine. The dragon had a cruel, thin face, with eyes that watched and that gave one the express notion that every waking moment he was wondering how to best you in the worst way. 

Sabellian had not liked many of his own kind, and Serinar was no exception. 

“I thought you were dead,” Serinar said, voice blurry. He looked him up and down. “You got fat.”

Sabellian kicked him in the teeth. Serinar's teeth clacked against the sole of his boot. The dragon jerked back, and at the sight of blood against his mouth, Sabellian felt a grim satisfaction.

“Where are my children?”

Serinar slouched back. He licked the blood from his teeth.

“How should I know?”

Had he not been so close to finding them – had he not known that he was so close to going home and being done with his unending nightmare of a situation – Sabellian may have had the willpower.

But he didn't. So he kicked Serinar again.

This time some of the teeth gave way, and as Serinar staggered back up, sputtering, two of his canines tumbled bloody to fall on his thighs.

“Have you lost your mind?” Serinar snarled. “Cowardly -”

Sabellian raised his hand this time. Serinar stopped with a flinch. He hissed.

Sabellian lowered his hand.

“Samia and Vaxian were last seen with you,” Sabellian said. “I'll ask again: where are they?”

Serinar glanced down at his teeth then looked back up, like he was wondering whether or not he could afford to lose more.

“We escaped the Vale after the explosion,” Serinar said at last. “The Dragonmaw couldn't get our bonds back. They broke.” He smiled. “Most of the orcs burned in the explosion.” His eyes grew distant in remembering. A glint of a smile lit on his face. A familiar bloodlust.

“And?” Sabellian pressed.

Serinar blinked and looked at him. He stared. Then he grunted.

“We came here,” he said. “But you already know that. You're already here.”

The admission felt like a breath of cold air, a sharpening of his chest, alert and a little unpleasant.

They were here.  _ His children were here. _

But for only one reason. He looked at Serinar.

“Why did they go with you?”

The smaller dragon rolled his shoulders back. Blood dripped from his lips.

“I told them I knew somewhere safe,” he said, and a coil of smugness unraveled in his voice. “Somewhere to hide from searching eyes.” He glanced past Sabellian, toward the encampment. “Like your new pet.”

Sabellian rumbled. “Everything has its use.” He looked out at Blackrock, at the great smoking peak, the crags upon crags, the sheaths of ore, unclaimed and never to be claimed by any mortal, lest they face the wrath of rogue dwarves or elementals or whatever creature still roamed the haunted place. “You hid here before?”

“No. I hid in the bones at the Obsidian Dragonshrine. The whelp couldn’t detect my scent behind theirs’.”

“What?”

Serinar stared at him. “My scent. A nasty little trick he had. Somehow he could use the earth and see where the remaining dragons were, as long as we stood on it. But when he saw me, he saw bones. It worked well in my favor.”

Sabellian thought about that. Then he scowled. Why hadn’t Wrathion used that before all of this? He brushed the thought aside and focused again at the task at hand.

“They wouldn't have gone with you,” Sabellian said. “Samia and Vaxian.”

Not normally. Not if they were in the right state of mind. Not if they hadn't been in the epicenter of an explosion of Old God energy.

“But they did,” Serinar said. His smug, bloodied look became thoughtful. Watchful. And behind that, wild. The look of a mad dog before it lunged. “They must have come to … understanding my line of reasoning again.”

Hot anger flooded through him as quick as a slap. The dragon rolled his fingers in and out of a fist to try to stop himself from striking Serinar again.

Instead, he turned to the Agent standing guard.

“You can take him from here,” he said. “The green one should do well.”

Serinar frowned. “What?”

Sabellian glanced back at him. “My new 'pets' are going to get the rest of the information from you,” he said. “I've them them some tools for use.”

He smiled, and this time he was the one with the touch of bloodthirst.

And for a flash of a moment, Serinar grew pale.

“Fine,” Serinar said, instead of begging. “I've never had the privilege of being poisoned by you. I welcome the challenge, I think. I always wondered if those Reds screaming for mercy was simply their air of drama.”

Sabellian sighed. He did not miss the arrogance of dragons, especially his own kind.

“Then enjoy the experience.”

An hour later, after screams upon screams of Serinar crying out in agony, they had the information they wanted.

 

* * *

 

  
  


“They found nothing?”

“I didn't say that,” Wrathion said. “I said they found nothing in the central chamber. Something couldn't let them continue.” He glanced down at his report: a stub of parchment that had little on it. He sniffed. “They couldn't find what.”

Three of his Agents had ridden back from a scouting mission into Blackrock only half an hour before. They had flown in exhausted and covered with dirt and grime - and with little to show for their venture.

“A great use they are,” Sabellian growled. “And a great waste of time!” 

Wrathion glanced up at him. “If you’d really like to thunder in there without scouting first, fine. If you end up dying it just means I can go home quicker.”

Sabellian growled. Wrathion rolled up the parchment. With a flick of his free hand, he set it aflame. It burned to ashes in seconds.

“Scouting didn’t seem to do much help.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure Serinar and whoever else in there wanted it to be that way. Doesn’t this seem like - oh, I don’t know. A trap?”

“Of course it does,” Sabellian snapped. But a trap - for what purpose? Samia and Vaxian may be under the thrall of the Old Gods - may? No, it was no doubt - and they might be under orders to subdue him. 

The thought was not one he wished to lull on, but had to. Blackrock Mountain was used by all a manner of people and monsters because of its fortification, its location, and the many hiding places within. Not to mention the raw energy of the volcano and the elements. Years ago not even the original Horde had been able to lay siege against it. 

And they were a party of - what, four, not including Wrathion’s extra Agents?

He frowned to himself and looked out at the Mountain. He rubbed the end of his beard. At the very least, they had some headway with being Black Dragons. The mountainous terrain was home, and traversing the caverns would hardly be troublesome.

He didn’t like thinking about that either. The crane talisman always burned hot in his pocket, now. If he went into the mountain - surrounded by earth - he sighed. Wrathion stared at him strangely. 

“He could have lied,” he pointed out.

“No. Not under my poisons.”

Wrathion sniffed. “I suppose pain is an effective method.”

“Yes, you would know, wouldn’t you?”

Wrathion went red. “Oh, yes, when you tortured me?”

“No. I meant during your original killings. Your orc told me you had a Red’s legs broken just for being in your hideout.”

Wrathion shot a look at Left, who shrugged. The orc had told Sabellian about it on their second day at sea, as if it was supposed to intimidate him. Sabellian had responded that he’d ripped a Red’s head off, once, and the rogue had made an annoyed noise and stopped talking.

“Anyway,” Wrathion grumbled, “my scouts are trying another way inside -”

“No. We’ll start making preparations to go in.” Before Wrathion could respond, Sabellian put up a hand. “Do you really think your scouts will find anything else? Serinar knows the mountain far more than they do.”

“Yes, and if they scout, then they’ll know  _ more _ . That’s what scouts are  _ for _ .” 

“Scouts who can’t even get in the central chamber,” Sabellian said. “No doubt that more barriers lay inside, from whatever entrance. Another waste of time.”

Wrathion pursed his lips, but did not argue. Though he had slowly regained his bite back since the Trial, the ex-Prince remained more subdued. Fine in Sabellian’s book. The less he spoke the better.

“You. Left.” Sabellian nodded at the orc. She stared at him, eyes lidded, tusks lopsided in her frown. “Pick two of your best underlings. We don’t need a large party. The smaller the better; we won’t be as detectable that way.” And this wasn’t a siege, not for them. They would be like termites in wood. Undetectable until it was too late. “And tell Rexxar to leave that bear of his behind to guard Serinar. Understood?”

She grunted.

He took that as a yes. At least she’d acknowledged him. 

“And you, boy.” He turned to him. Wrathion was looking down at his nails and picking dirt out of them. He glanced up when spoken to. “You’ll be the one to find my children inside.”

Wrathion raised a brow. “With what? My scouts? Who you obviously think are useless?” His voice was flat.

“No. Serinar told me how you found the other dragons during the Cataclysm. Very clever, using that trick.” nodded at the Mountain. “Do that here. And do tell: why didn’t you use that before?”

“I tried,” Wrathion snapped defensively. “There’s something strange about Blackrock’s energy. Whatever barrier my scouts are running into is the same one that won’t allow me to see inside.” He frowned to himself. “At least I think so.”

Sabellian huffed. “When did you try that?”

“I’ve been trying it,” Wrathion said, gruff. “Not like you would know. You hardly even look at me.”

“Yes, I wonder why, boy!” The insufferable little - he breathed out hard and ran a hand down his face. “Fine.”

Wrathion crossed his arms over his chest. “I am not trying to stop you. Don’t you think I understand that the quicker I can get done with this, the quicker I can go home?” An exasperated sound rumbled at the back of his throat. “I’m helping! And I can’t do anything  to stop you, anyway! Don’t you recall?” He started a mocking sing-song tone: “‘’I must stop killing -’”

“I remember your oath. Quiet.” The oath was binding; Wrathion really could do nothing but help. Even so, it was hard to really trust him wholly. “Enough of this. We leave when our supplies are ready.” He paused. “And bring as many weapons as you can.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

“If we get ambushed here,” Wrathion said, “I will be the first to say that I told you so.”

They stood before one of the few openings into Blackrock. It was the side leading from the Searing Gorge, where the dwarves had chiseled through centuries ago, and left behind their sturdiest of architecture.

Including the door before them. It was massive, made of solid rock that may have once been part of the mountain. They were open in a way that suggested they'd been wedged apart just enough for a small party to slip through.

“We have no other choice,” Sabellian bit back. “Your little spies can't continue. So we must go on our own.” He studied the ground in search of prints, or where tails had slid against it. Nothing. He frowned. “It will be better to do this personally.” The idea of sending mortals in to save his children was not only wrong but dishonorable.

But that didn't mean they couldn't come along. Rexxar, Left, and two other Agents he didn't care enough to know their names had joined them.

All were armed.

From what Serinar had told them, the mountain was fortified with all a manner of defenses. Traps, poisons, and guards. More than that, he expected. Much more. Serinar himself had remained behind, guarded, as he’d commanded, by Misha. The dragon had said nothing when he saw them prepare to leave. Instead he’d watched in silence, his eyes far away but calculated. As usual.

Sabellian’s staff felt heavy on his back. He stared up at the mountain, at these ancient doors, and took a deep breath.

“Come. There is nothing to do but go.”

Sabellian walked through the doors. Yes - just large enough so one didn’t have to squeeze through, but just small enough that it seemed to be done to the bare minimum of effort. He wondered, as he slipped through, what generation of dwarves had much this, and when they had been driven out. His brother had not dealt kindly with others in the mountain when he had set his claim upon it.

While the Searing Gorge was a dark and dim place, clouded with red skies, it did not prepare him much for the darkness he found within. He blinked once then twice as his eyes adjusted. 

It was a forgettable entrance room. Runes decorated the top of the walls in an unending band, and a handful of pillars, crumbling from age, sat stocky in each corner. To the eastern wall, a path split and led deeper in Blackrock. It smelled of soil, but dry and lacking, the type that would not bear fruitful crops.  

“Baron?”

The dragon flinched. Rexxar stood at his side, watching him.

He’d frozen in place when going inside. Even now flashes of fear pinged in his belly. The earth pressed in on him from all sides, and it was no claustrophobia that stalled him.

He reached for the crane talisman hidden in one of his many pockets and squeezed it.

“It is nothing,” he said. “Come.”

They went.

 

* * *

 

 

The heat pressed in from all sides; it was as if the very walls and air were closing in around them. A slow bear trap. That, and the place exuded a sense of foreboding. It was not the darkness or shadows, or the distant groaning from the bowels of the mountain. It was more of an insidious feeling that oozed from the rocks; a lingering hint of death or a watching eye. They could be watched, even now, by Ragnaros's minions or Dark Iron Dwarves who remained in the mountain, or any guards Serinar had posted.

Wrathion led the way. It had been an unsaid command after they'd entered Blackrock: Sabellian had stood still and watched him until Wrathion had grown impatient and walked past them. Only then had Sabellian – and the others – followed.

It had become clear at once it wasn't because Sabellian wanted to use him as bait to set off any traps first: it was because the elder dragon was out of his element. Not once had Sabellian offered directions or argued with which way they went. Instead the dragon grew quieter and quieter still as they went deeper into the mountain.

Wrathion felt some satisfaction at seeing Sabellian so uncomfortable. He recalled the dragon's fear in Sik'vess, when the mantid had led them underground. An earth dragon afraid of the earth.

And for Wrathion, despite the darkness of the mountain, felt alive.

More alive than he'd felt since leaving Pandaria - after being forced to. The dullness of his depression waned away, if only just, surrounded by so much earth.

And depressed he had been, for there could be no other word. Sabellian had dealt him a blow that he would never really recover from. His defeat had been so sound so absolute, that the last ounce the once-Prince had mustered up from the shattered remnants of his ego, his confidence and charm, had shattered right there on the Celestial Court.

For once in his life, Wrathion had accepted defeat. Accepted it, and sank into it. Sank into it so deep that all his earlier pretense had melted away.

He'd been wrong.

Wrong to kill that drake. And he'd actually told Sabellian so, in a moment of weakness.

Because how could he deny it any longer? He had seen the visions. He had seen how Sabellian had never any real intention of returning to Azeroth.

And he knew – he knew – he'd been denying it for too long. Even before the mantid he had begun to question, to voice his concerns with Anduin Wrynn, only to squash them because of his pride. Because he hadn't wanted to be wrong. Because if he hadn't thrown such worries aside, then he would have come to realize that all of this suffering and death could have been avoided. Even seconds after stabbing Sabellian, he realized he’d done the wrong thing - and instead of facing it he had walled himself off from everyone, to contain himself in stone, a cold front of righteousness.

But know he knew. Now he was tired. He knew he'd been wrong. And his title, his influence, had been sheared away from him.

As they had traveled here, he had lay awake at night, watching the stars. Thinking.

There had been nothing else to do but follow.

Follow, and do his job. Do his job fast to get home fast. To be done with dragons for a long time.

Could Fahrad could have lived? The memory of his death was forever fresh: his surprised expression, then his fear. Then how desperate Fahrad had been when he demanded to know why Wrathion had angered Them.

Back then, Wrathion had hated the task, but knew it had to be done. To purify Azeroth of his corrupt family. A family he would never know. A grim burden but a necessary one. Better to be alone than to let monsters that shared his blood still live.

Monsters that still lived. His own crusade a sham among the faces of the elder dragon walking behind him, his brood, and Serinar.

And who knew if there were more? Wrathion certainly didn't.

He stopped in his tracks. Rexxar nearly rammed into him. The Mok'nathal grunted in annoyance.

“What? What is it?” Sabellian demanded.

“I felt something.” Wrathion raised his hand and splayed his fingers to feel the magic in the air.

It had been small, but just noticeable enough to catch his attention. A shift; a breath of cool air amongst the heat.

But it felt strange. Instead of feeling new energy, he felt energy he already show have had. It was like a fog had been lifted. A fog he hadn't realized had been there in the first place. Careful spellwork!

And one he expected.

Everything seemed to sharpen around him, and the energy that had lifted his spirits before brightened, sunlike, around him.

“Well?” Sabellian prodded. Wrathion jumped a little.

“The barrier,” Wrathion said. He looked around but could see no obvious marker or rune. Of course not. Such a thing would be hidden well. Even his Agents hadn't reported anything of the sort. “Surely to keep our magic at bay. The scouts didn’t get this far - this must be it. Didn't you feel it?”

Sabellian glanced at him with a frown. “No.”

Wrathion raised an eyebrow. Sabellian might have been afraid of the earth, but could he really not feel that? Wrathion could admit he didn't his his earthly powers much, but he could still sense Azeroth around him like a coat at all times.

Odd.

“Well. Serinar and the others seem to have made some sort of barrier. To black dragons.” But something told him it was just for him. He eyed Left and Rexxar. “Do you see beyond this point?”

“Yes,” Rexxar said. Left nodded.

Interesting. Perhaps it was a conscious barrier. Did Samia know they were coming? Is that why the barrier now allowed mortals through? If that was the case, it seemed more and more like a trap.

Wrathion closed his eyes and reached out to the earth. It sparked around him; he could feel the essences of the dragons that had once walked this cavern. So many echoes. It was like the earth was wet sand, taking in every footstep and bearing them forever to the world. Older ones were weathered and indistinct, but still there.

Some of these “footprints” were fresh. Wrathion recognized Serinar's essence at once. They tread back and forth and back and forth, until finally they snaked up the corridor and did not return.

Then there were more. Two more. Wrathion smiled to himself. He recognized Samia's essence more clearly than the other one. Vaxian, he supposed. He focused on Samia: the bright snap of energy which reminded him of the spark created when two rocks smashed together.

The earth responded gladly. In his mind's eye, a flare grew forward and beyond, delving deep then deeper into the mountain.

It showed him where she was, and how to get to her.

He grinned. With a lurch, he pulled back from the trance-like state. Light-headedness rushed over him. He hadn't done that trick since the Cataclysm to find the rest of the dragons on Azeroth.

Much harder to do when you weren't practically standing on top of one.

Sabellian was saying something. Wrathion blinked and looked at him. Only then, when he saw the other dragon's face, did his uncle's words become hearable.

“Boy! Are you listening to me? What are you doing?”

He grinned again.

“Oh,” he drawled, “just finding your daughter.”

 

* * *

 

 

Deeper and deeper they trudged into Blackrock.

They arrived at the central chamber at last, its closeness marked by the wave of heat that blew into the corridor.

A heat caused by lava. Magma. They rounded a corner and then they were upon it: a large cavern that reached skyward, where below a pool of lava gurgled, fed by rivulets pouring from multiple holes and marks in the crags of the chamber’s natural walls. In the very center stood a monolith of stone - a monolith that floated. It was being held up by enormous chains that stretched from every side of the mountain. Inside of it and around it, stairs and dwarven entranceways to even more places. 

These entranceways surrounded the entire chamber, not just the crude pillar that almost seemed like it was holding the ceiling up. More dwarven architecture marked this place, creating hallways chiseled into the very stone. Hallways, passages, balconies. All of it. This place had not been hollowed out by the dwarves; no, it had always remained. The dwarves had simply refined it here and there for their needs. No doubt, so had the black dragons who had lurked here. Sabellian didn’t know that so much as he felt it.

Wrathion had continued to lead  the way. He’d said Samia was in the western recesses of the mountain, down a handful of paths and more chambers like this one. 

Just his luck. The deeper they’d walked the more anxious Sabellian had become, but he did not let it show on his face. 

The worst part was that the more they’d walked, the more some sense of him felt at peace. Like he was home. Like he belonged here. 

That scared him the most. He felt it more of a trap than whatever Serinar had left for them was.

This place was not his home.

He kept a hold on the talisman at all times.

Wrathion stopped at the edge to stare over the place. His eyes were wide; mystified. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured. Sabellian looked around and frowned. It was not to him. To him this place represented his family’s cursed past.

“Yes, alright. Which way?”

“Oh. Mm.” Wrathion looked around. “This way.”

Without hesitation, the whelp walked onto the chain holding the central rock afloat. Left made a strangled sound.

“I’m fine, Left,” Wrathion called back. He was already halfway across. “It’s steady. Truly.”

“Either this boy is fearless or reckless,” Rexxar muttered to Sabellian. The Beastmaster was coated with sweat, but he did not seem to be uncomfortable. 

“Both, I think.” Sabellian nodded to Left and the Agents. They followed after Wrathion, who now stood at the end, watching them and waiting.

Finally, Sabellian and Rexxar followed. It was steady; Wrathion had not been bluffing. By the time they were at the end of the chain, Wrathion was already walking away in a different direction.

This continued for what seemed like hours. Wrathion would stop, cock his head to one side and then another, and then change directions. The party delved down the dwarven passageways, slipped past moldering Blackrock Orc ruins, and through passageways so small that at one point Rexxar nearly turned back because he couldn’t fit. It’d taken Left all her strength to yank him through.

The senses Sabellian had desperately tried to block out since going inside the Mountain still leaked in a little; he felt they were truly in the heart of the mountain now. The place seemed to groan around them. The heat wavered in places, becoming bearable - at least to the humans - and then superheated the next, even if they saw no magma nearby. Despite wearing so much clothing it covered every inch of his skin, Sabellian did not mind the heat. It was nice. Soothing.

They walked past lava pools so large they could have passed for a lake. They picked through Iron Dwarven ruins, these much more fresh than the Blackrock’s. At one point Rexxar had pointed out something in the shadows: a group of basilisks who had stopped gorging from some sort of glowing plant that grew from the walls to stare at them. 

Beyond the basilisks, they saw no living thing.

It was when they were going through a set of Dwarven rooms - yet again carved into the stone - when Sabellian stopped. A smell had begun to take form: something familiar, and in a bad way.

The others stopped around him. Rexxar eyed him. Wrathion looked back with annoyance.

“We may have guests soon,” Sabellian said. Then he moved past Wrathion and through the next passage.

It yawned out into a cavern, taller and deeper than it was wide. And tall and deep it was. Peering down, Sabellian saw dozens of levels of stone, like the one they now walked on, sinking into the blackness of the mountain, where far, far below he could just make out the distant glow of magma. Above them hovered the same, though the top ended abruptly, with stalagmites crunching from the high ceiling.

The smell here was as strong as a salty wind at sea. He squinted down into the blackness. The cavern was dark, darker than most of the other passages they'd wound through, and lit only by lava rivulets scattered along the walls and the distant pool.

But in some of the shadows remained slight changes: earthier shadows amongst the inky black.

A mortal might not be able to tell the difference, but Sabellian could. Those shadows still still – waiting, or hiding – in the dark.

He sighed slowly through clenched teeth.

“Come out,” he called, his command catching the wall and bouncing down into the lower levels.

“What are you doing?” Wrathion hissed.

Sabellian ignored him and waited.

It took a moment, but some of the shadows began to move. They crept into the light, away from the walls.

Emerging from the dark were half-a-dozen – a dozen – more than a dozen – Dragonkin.

Most of them were centaur-like in body, large and long with six limbs. The rest were the bipedal sort: hulking, armored wyrms who resembled dragons if they were stopped mid-transformation from their mortal forms.

The growing numbers looked up at them with hunger and curiosity. Their eyes held a glint of starvation, but not in the eating sense. No, this was a starvation of isolation, a glimmer of freshness before them. Desperate, but suspicious.

Wrathion sucked in a breath.

“Forget to do your spring cleaning, boy?” Sabellian rumbled back to him. Wrathion's face soured.

There must have been thirty of them, down below. Maybe more, deeper into the levels. More still in some of the passageways, all the nooks and crannies, all the carved out holes, inside the mountain. Who knew? Sabellian certainly didn't. In truth, he had not given the Dragonkin half a thought since he'd come back to Azeroth: these twisted servants of the Dragonflights. But why would he? As lieutenant he'd hardly given them a second glance, unless they were high-ranking. They were akin to what a mortal might think of a peasant. Useful, but oftentimes annoying. Too eager to please.

And so many had survived the purge of the Cataclysm. More than he might have expected, had he given them a single passing thought. But it didn't surprise him. Dragonkin were made to be sturdy as a cockroach.

“Who are you?” called a drakonid. “I don't recognize your smells.” It looked at Rexxar, Left, and the two other Agents. “We do not allow mortals in our halls...”

Sabellian stepped forward. What seemed like a hundred eyes looked up at him.

“Sabellian,” he called down. “How many are you are there?”

The drakonid frowned at him. Others hissed in surprise.

“Lieutenant Sabellian?” asked a dragonspawn, one still halfway emerged in shadow. “Deathwing's son?”

“Sabellian perished on Outland,” one dragonspawn said.

“No. My charges and I lived through the breaking.”

Murmurs rose from the platforms, their eyes flickering candle-lights in the dark as they looked at one another.

Sabellian frowned. They felt sure in that conviction; he felt it in their faces, in their confusion. Perhaps a rumor had spread or some high-ranking dragon had said he was dead because, really, who had come out of that terrible breaking alive or unchanged?

“No, that's him,” a dragonspawn called out. “Look at his face. Nefarian's brother.”

Nefarian's brother.

Anger swelled through him. Nefarian's brother. Always in his shadow, despite outliving the mad fool for years upon years.

He brushed aside the anger. Wrathion inched closer to the edge, staring down at them all. His eyes were a bit wide, but, to Sabellian’s surprise, the whelp looked somewhat… bemused. Bemused and somewhat panicky, it seemed.

“How many of you are there?”

The first drakonid to speak looked at him. “Why?”

Wrathion shrugged.

“Curiosity.”

The drakonid stared at him. Did they know who Wrathion was? Doubtful. And if they did, they apparently didn't care enough about him – or thought themselves self because Sabellian himself had no issue.

“Fifty-seven, last I remember,” they said at last. Wrathion made a strangled noise. “Sometimes they come and go. Sometimes they don't come back.” They shrugged. “Used to have more show up, but haven't had any new Dragonkin for months.”

“And your name?” Sabellian called. 

“Gravel.”

“Gravel,” he repeated. Who had named them that stupid name? He rubbed his beard and looked at them all - this horde of by-gone era. “Gravel, then. We are looking for someone. Dragons.”

“Yes. Yes, I thought you might. Mm… who?”

“Who? The only dragons in here.”

Gravel blinked at him once, slowly. “The new ones, or the old ones?”

Sabellian and Wrathion glanced at one another. Then they both looked down at the drakonid.

“Their names are Samia and Vaxian,” Sabellian called down. It was unnerving to speak to a group so large and get back so little. They all just stared at him. Watching. So many eyes.

“Oh.” Gravel scratched at the frills on their neck. “Old ones. Yes, they are deeper in, in the old place. I led the new ones there. Shall I take you too?”

“How do we even know it’s Sabellian?” hissed a dragonspawn. Their tail smacked the floor. “There have been imposters before!”

“Trusssst me,” Gravel said. “I live to serve. Can you not feel it? Power in blood. Power of Deathwing’s bloodline.”

Sabellian tried not to scowl. It was true: dragonkin  _ were _ made to serve, and some part of them could scent out high-ranking dragons. It was how they knew where to go in the battlefield, or who to listen to in a dispute amongst dragons. They always listened to the one closest to Deathwing, their utmost patron. 

Even if he was dead. 

In other Dragonflights, dragonspawn might have operated differently. But not for theirs. Theirs was always based on who had the most power, and the power was in the blood.

“I can lead us there,” Wrathion hissed to Sabellian. “We don’t need any more hanger-ons. Especially some corrupt bunch of dragonspawn.”

“They spoke of newer dragons,” Sabellian rumbled. “Samia and Vaxian were the older ones.” He glanced sidelong at Wrathion. “Who do you suppose those might be?”

Wrathion shook his head in exasperation and ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t ask  _ me. _ Clearly I don’t know anything about the Black Dragonflight anymore! At least who’s still alive!  _ Fifty-seven _ ? I didn’t feel them at all in the mountain!”

“You felt no other dragons besides Samia and Vaxian?”

“No. If I did, I would have said.”

Sabellian considered that. Were the Dragonspawn under Serinar’s command? No. That was impossible. Serinar was far underneath Sabellian in terms of rank; Serinar would know they would flip on him in an instant, so no trap could really be sprung. The only other dragon who might outrank Sabellian was Nefarian, but he was long dead, a husk rotting somewhere in the mountain.

“What new dragons do you speak of, wrym?” Sabellian called down.

“A drake,” said a dragonspawn, far down in one of the lowest seeable levels. “Wandering the mountain alone.”

“A drake?” Sabellian tensed. “What did she look like?”

“Short. Not as short as that one.” They nodded at Wrathion. “Tied up hair. Confused. Wouldn’t stop talking.”

It couldn’t be.

“A black dragon?”

“Yesssss… no other dragonflights dare enter here.”

“Is she still here? Where did you take her?” With each question he grew louder, and his words sharper.

“Yesss.”

“Lead me to her.”

“Uncle dear? Can I speak with you a moment?”

Sabellian snapped his eyes over to Wrathion. “What is it now?”

“Please. You cannot  _ seriously _ believe this,” Wrathion whispered. His eyebrows were screwed up in frustration. “Do you remember the  _ trap _ you and I discussed?”

“If it’s Pyria, then I’d run into any trap to find her.”

“That’s all well and noble, but if you run into a trap and die that isn’t going to help Samia and Vaxian, is it?” 

He thrust out a hand and pointed at the dragonspawn. “What other drake could there be? Pyria hasn’t been seen since the Dragonmaw took her siblings!”

“Why ask me? I only  _ just  _ said don’t know anything about who’s still alive in this Light-forsaken family!” Wrathion took a breath, closed his eyes, and slouched down, forcing himself to relax. “Now. I am going to very kindly and firmly suggest we continue  _ my  _ route about where your children are. Need I remind you I didn’t feel Pyria’s presence here?”

Sabellian snorted smoke. He glanced back and forth between Wrathion and the dragonspawn. The group below was silent, watching. 

Dragonspawn were never very talkative.

“They wouldn’t lie to me.”

Wrathion stared at him, bewildered. “Oh? When did you become so optimistic?”

Sabellian snorted again. “That drakonid wasn’t exaggerating: these things were made to serve us. They are servants, boy; fodder. They know nothing but to obey the highest rank.” He pointed at himself to illustrate the point, as he was becoming increasingly agitated. “They do not  _ lie  _ to a son of Deathwing.”

Wrathion frowned, unsure. Now it was him who glanced back and forth, from dragonspawn to Sabellian, before he scowled and rolled his eyes.

“Fine. Do what you will.”

Behind Wrathion, Rexxar watched Sabellian. He gave a small nod. 

It gave Sabellian a bit more conviction, and as he turned to look back down at the dragonspawn, his voice held the command of his old title.

“You live to serve,” Sabellian called down to Gravel. “Then take us to them.”

Gravel bowed his head. Two dragonspawn hopped up to offer their services. Sabellian nodded at them impatiently.

“This is foolish,” Wrathion muttered. 

“Maybe,” Sabellian said. Rexxar snorted behind him. As always, the Mok’nathal was quiet and watchful but ever intense. 

“More eyes are better than less,” the half-orc rumbled. 

“Do you agree with  _ everything _ Sabellian says?” Wrathion said.

“No. He thinks clefthoof meat tastes better than talbuk.”

Wrathion huffed. Sabellian hummed in amusement.

“This is why I allow you to call me your friend,” he pointed out. 

It took a moment, but Gravel and the others finally made their way up to their platform. Each led to the other through a hidden series of paths behind the chamber walls. 

The drakonid was tall, nearly eight feet, and built like all of their kind: muscular, leathery, and intimidating. Scars littered their body, but their armor was scuffed and worn, and in some places, missing in great chunks. Their eyes were a solid green.

“This way, Lieutenant,” they said. “I will take you to the drake.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


 

. 

  
  
  
  
  



	38. Chapter 38

“How long have you been here?”

The group walked through another set of ruins. They still looked Dwarven: squared, sturdy shapes, runic decorations, pillars to keep the ceiling from collapsing. But the more they walked the more draconic elements began to show.

Dragons didn’t have architecture styles of their own. Not really. They had mortals or dragonspawn to make such things for them, and a dragon simply chose what they liked best from what was made.

But hints of  _ obvious  _ draconic activity thicked in every new room. In one, bones and scorch marks littered the floor. In another, pieces of vials, large as Rexxar, sat collecting dust. Piles of metal; shed scales amongst the dirt; claw marks that might have been mistaken for a large basilisk’s to the passing eye.

And then there  _ were _ the architectural signs, like the dragon-head sculpture that loomed in front of the next entrance.

An entrance that had been smashed through to make it larger, so a dragon’s true form might slip through.

But these were old modifications. The dust had settled long ago, and the smashed-up stone had grown comfortable in its new positioning. It’d no doubt been done when the Black Dragonflight had first come to brood here.

“How long have you been here?” Wrathion asked again. Gravel hadn’t heard him, or had decided to ignore him. The drakonid, who towered over everyone except maybe Rexxar, led the way, his looming form a deep, stalking shadow in front of the quiet party. His two kin, the centaur-like dragonspawn, kept glancing unkindly at Wrathion, so the ex-prince thought it’d be better to question the drakonid instead.

“Since the Cataclysm,” they answered. Then they paused, cocked their head to the side, and said: “No. When the mortals first found the island. I was here during the Cataclysm. Left. Came back.”

Wrathion wrinkled his nose. Since Pandaria, then.   
“And what do you do here, exactly?”

“Wait.”

“For?”

“Don’t know.”

Helpful. Wrathion mumbled. 

“A leader,” said a voice next to him. Wrathion jerked in surprise. Sabellian had materialized nearby. The dragon had been silent since Gravel had begun leading the way, and he had a look on his face, all dark and drawn and brooding. But he had a look like that on his face almost constantly, with various, slight modifications, and Wrathion had grown tired of trying to guess his uncle’s new emotion of the hour. 

“What?”

“They have no one to lead them,” Sabellian drawled. “So they wait for someone to come to do so.”

Wrathion snorted, disbelieving. “None of them try to take power?”

“You don’t know how Dragonspawn work, boy. No. Of course none try, because all of these underlings were made to be low-ranking. So they are what they are. No doubt the high-ranking Dragonspawn have all been killed or got themselves murdered elsewhere.”

Wrathion thought of the drakonid, Creed, he’d had killed in Gilneas: the one who had tried to enslave the citizens there. He hummed quietly.

They walked in silence for a time. Deeper and deeper they went into the mountain, and hotter and hotter it became. Wrathion caught Left rolling up her sleeves. She and the other mortals were sweating hard. Even Rexxar, bare-chested and bare-thighed, was slick with it. 

But it was a nice warmth to him; calming. Wrathion breathed deep the smell of the earth around him. It was not the smell of fresh dirt, but of a crisp sort of wetness; sharpness. The smell of old rock and ore. Truthfully he had never been so deep underground before, and he decided he rather liked it. It felt right to him.

They walked down a ramp and into yet another room. This place was an absolute labyrinth. How many hidden buildings were down here? How many nooks and crannies, how many places to hide? His skin prickled. Certainly nearly  _ fifty  _ Dragonspawn had been able to hide from him here. He thought, unpleasantly, of what else might be waiting for him. He eyed Gravel as they entered the new room.

It was a tavern of sorts, but destroyed. Wooden tables rotted where they had been abandoned, and the bar was smashed in half as if from one great blow. A chandelier made of gemstone hung from the ceiling. It was dusty, but still in perfect condition. It glowed dimly. Enchanted? 

“Boy.”

“Mm.”

Sabellian hadn’t left his side since he’d spoken before. The dragon didn’t look at him, but kept his eyes fixed ahead. 

“Is this the same path you had seen before?”

“Remarkably enough,” Wrathion muttered. “I still don’t like this, but you won’t listen to me anyway, so why waste my breath?”

Sabellian curled a lip. A curl of smoke cusped around his lips. 

“Will you just shut up?”

“You’re the one who asked me the question!”

A hand grabbed him from behind and stopped him from walking. Wrathion hissed in surprise and turned - in the same beat Sabellian did.

Rexxar had grabbed them both. He nodded to the side.

The tavern had three different exits, all doorless archways, and though Gravel was leading the way to the north, Rexxar pointed out the west. 

It led out to another bridge. Someone crouched at the end of the pass. 

Wrathion blinked. It was, of all things, a tauren. They were leaning over something - someone. 

Sabellian inhaled sharply. His pupils swept down into slits. 

“ _ Pyria! _ ”

 

 

\----

 

 

Sabellian knew all the scents of his children. To an outsider, they would smell similar, if not the same.

But Sabellian was a broodfather. Sabellian knew his children well. And Sabellian knew at once that the unmoving form at the end of the bridge was Pyria.

He shoved past Rexxar and Wrathion. In a blur he was on the bridge, his staff summoned to his side and fire crackling in his throat. 

“Step away!” he snarled at the tauren. 

The mortal flinched. In a whirl of motion, he stood and turned. 

A shaman, and a massive one. A skull sat over his face, and from his head grew antlers - not horns. Antlers. Sabellian’s rush of anger tempered for a moment by his surprise. Moose antlers on a tauren? He’d never seen such a ridiculous thing.

“This drake is injured,” the tauren said. “Who are you?”

“I am -”

The tauren’s smell finally reached him. Sabellian grew still. 

It wasn’t a tauren’s smell at all.

It was a dragon’s.

A black dragon’s.

Sabellian’s anger curdled and grew bitter and hot like fire becoming lava. “Who are  _ you? _ ”

It seemed Sabellian’s scent reached the “tauren,” then, because the shaman stood up straighter and his ears perked up. He flared his nostrils.

The two stared at one another.

“I am Spiritwalker Ebonhorn,” the tauren said slowly. He pinned his ears back. Distrust, open and scathing, showed clear on his face. “Do you know this drake?”

“She’s my daughter,” Sabellian growled. “Move away.” 

Ebonhorn hesitated. His nose twitched. 

“If you don’t move, I will make you.” Sabellian took a step forward. He curled his fingers tight around the staff - so tight he felt them go numb. “Move. Now!”

Ebonhorn hesitated for a moment longer.

Then he moved away. 

The moment he did, Sabellian rushed forward. He knelt at Pyria’s side and turned her over.

She had a bruise on her temple, red and growing, but otherwise, she looked uninjured. Uninjured and alive. Sabellian breathed out hard. The dragon behind him was forgotten in the face of his daughter’s appearance, bizarre as it was. How had she gotten here?  _ Why  _ was she here?

He sat her up so she was leaning against the wall. She didn’t stir. He brushed the hair from her face and watched in tense silence as her chest rose and fell. Shallow breathing - but breathing nonetheless.

“She was alone,” the deep voice of the tauren - no,  _ dragon  _ \- rumbled from behind him. “I found her -”

Sabellian stood and turned with the same grace and speed as Ebonhorn had before. He pointed the top of his staff at him. The point was sharp as a sword and could be tossed like a javelin, and he was thinking of just where to throw it. Eye? Throat? He snarled.

“Are you trying to cover your tracks, lizard?” he said. “Hard to do, when you’ve already been caught.”

Ebonhorn snorted. He stomped his foot. It rang a great clanging sound on the bridge, hoof on stone. 

“I have no blood on my hands.”

“She isn’t bleeding, fool!”

“I have no reason to hurt a child,” Ebonhorn insisted, growing more frustrated with each word. He shook his head out. “I only just found her.”

Rexxar appeared at the other side of the bridge, as did Wrathion and Left. At least Wrathion and Left tried; the half-orc was blocking their way, and the whelp had to stand on his tip toes to see through Rexxar’s arm.

“You just happened to come across her?” Who was this “Ebonhorn?” He’d never heard of such a name, let alone known a dragon who took a tauren guise. Especially a tauren with such ridiculous horns. 

It would have been safer if it was someone he knew, like Serinar. This dragon was a stranger, a wild card he didn’t know how to play around. 

“Yes.” Ebonhorn jerked his head up to motion at the passage next to them, where the bridge led to. “She was simply lying there.”

“Do you know who I -” His anger dulled on his tongue as Pyria groaned behind him.

Ebonhorn was forgotten again. Sabellian was at Pyria’s side once more, his hands on the side of her face as her eyelids fluttered. He tried to hear any change in her breathing.

“Pyria? Pyria. Come, girl, speak. Wake.”

She took in a shuddering breath. Her eyes opened slowly. She looked at him, eyes foggy but seeing. 

“Dad?” She blinked once, lop-sidedly. “Oh. Hi.”

Relief rushed through him as quick as a flood. He breathed out hard and squeezed her shoulders.

“Girl, what happened? How did you get here? Did that dragon hurt you?”

She closed her eyes and shimmied up against the wall to straighten up a little. 

“Ugh. Sorry. My head hurts.” She breathed in and out, in and out. Finally she opened her eyes and looked at him. He nodded at Ebonhorn, who stood nearly a yard away. 

“Him? Oh. No. He was trying to wake me up,” she mumbled. Her voice went a little fuzzy, and the distant look in her eyes had yet to fade. She must have been struck harder than he’d thought. 

Sabellian frowned and glanced back at Ebonhorn, then back at Pyria before he could see more of his vaguely-smug expression. 

“I was… I was tracking Samia,” she mumbled. She rubbed her eyes. “The netherdrakes - hey! Where are they?” Pyria sat up with a jerk, then flinched. Sabellian pressed her back down. 

“There are no netherdrakes, girl.”

“But they were all with me -” She glanced behind Sabellian’s shoulder. A flash of paleness sank into her face. “Those!” 

“What?”

“Those two!”

Sabellian looked back. The rest of the group had come onto the bridge.

It was not Ebonhorn she was looking at, but the two Dragonspawn that had escorted the group with Gravel.

And Sabellian looked just in time for one of them to charge at Wrathion with a roar.

It never got close. Left materialized on top of his centaur-like back and thrust her dagger into its humanoid back. It screeched and stumbled off to the side - almost falling off the bridge. 

Gravel, standing at the very back of the group, tilted their head. They took one very large step back. 

“Traitors!” called the second Dragonspawn. “ _ Die! _ ”

He lunged forward with his axe extended while its comrade grappled with Left, still on its back. 

Sabellian stood to face it. 

Arcane exploded from his hands. The missiles struck the Dragonspawn in the chest. It stumbled with a grunt - but kept coming.

The first Dragonspawn grabbed a hold of Left at last and threw her. Wrathion jerked forward and grabbed the orc before she could fall off the side. 

But her weight was too much. Even as the second Dragonspawn charged him again, Sabellian watched as Wrathion began to fall off the edge with his Agent. It happened so fast he couldn’t move to grab him.

He didn’t have to - Rexxar did.

The half-orc struck out a hand and snatched onto the back of Wrathion’s coat. With a tug, he pulled them back onto the bridge; agent and commander fell in a clump.

Then Rexxar turned, grabbed the dagger-struck Dragonspawn by the throat, and threw him off the bridge instead. The creature had no time to cry out, but the sound of his body hitting the rocks far below signaled the death throes he did not get to have.

The remaining Dragonspawn was almost upon Sabellian now, and arcane fizzled into the elder dragon’s hand again. Before he cold let it loose, the bridge rose up in front of him - and exploded in front of the Dragonspawn.

Exploded - then reached out toward him. The Dragonspawn jerked back. 

Not quite quick enough. The stone and earth coiled around him and squeezed him into place. He writhed and screamed in anger, but he couldn’t move. The prison allowed no leniency.

Sabellian turned in surprise. Ebonhorn put down his hand, looked at Sabellian, and snorted smoke.

Wonderful. Another earth-bending black dragon. Just what he needed.

“You follow me, Dragonspawn,” he said to the captive, who still wrestled with its prison. “Did you really just try to  _ kill _ me?”

“I don’t follow you, cretin!” it snarled. Spittle covered its maw, and its eyes fixed on Sabellian. The level of hatred in its gaze was beyond any mortal - even draconic - capabilities. “I follow the true master!”

“I see,” Sabellian said. He understood. How could he not? He tilted his head and studied the corrupted thing in silence, even as it spit and snapped at him like some rabid dog, its teeth closing inches from his face. “And what master is higher than me, servant?”

“Below,” it said. “Below. You disobey! Traitor! You will die! You cannot go against your leader! Traitor!  _ Traitor _ !”

With each word the Dragonspawn grew more and more angry. His eyes flashed; spit flew from its mouth. He moved and writhed as much as his station would allow. 

Until, finally, the earth holding him heaved off to the side and threw him into the darkness. His cries followed, growing more and more distant until finally they stopped with a sudden crunch.

All eyes turned to Gravel.

The Dragonkin blinked once.

They dropped their polearm and put up their hands.

“I live to serve,” they said, and shrugged. 

“Yes, and serve who?” Wrathion hissed. “Who  _ they _ did?”

“Some follow old masters,” Gravel said. “Some hear more than Gravel does.”

“Hear what?”

Gravel considered this. Then he pointed down.

Then all around them.

Sabellian’s chest grew cold. A rush of things had just happened, and only now, in this widening silence, did they all come to him at once.

Sabellian growled and turned back to Pyria. The drake had fallen unconscious again. He picked her up and stood. 

“They want us dead, boy,” he called to Wrathion. “I think our family’s old masters are tired of being denied.” He looked at Gravel. Despite what had just happened, he still felt himself trusting the drakonid. They’d had every opportunity to take them by surprise, but hadn’t. He’d have Rexxar keep a closer eye on them, though. Just in case. The drakonid could still be a lingering trap, but if it continued to play along, it’d still be useful until it turned on them like its comrades. They’d been leading them in the right direction, anyway. ”Take us somewhere safe, before any of your other kin with the same mindset as those in the ravine come crawling out for us.”

“As you say,” they said, and bowed their head.

Wrathion grumbled.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” came the rumbly voice of Ebonhorn, “but I should like to follow you, I think. I’m concerned about the drake’s head injury. I can heal her.”

“Aren’t you kind,” Sabellian growled. “No. Whoever you are, you can take a different direction.”

Wrathion glanced dismissively at Ebonhorn, looked away - then looked at him again. He stared.

Finally he made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, put his face in his hands, and went still as ice. Left gave him a sympathetic look.

“Dad, no, let him come.” Pyria had stirred, if just a little, and her words were hardly legible in her dizzy mumble. “I like him. Furry.”

“We don’t even know who he is -”

“Tried to help me, though,” his daughter said, then smiled. Her teeth were bloodied. “That’s pretty nice.”

Sabellian set his lips in a thin line and glanced at Ebonhorn. 

“Are you another refugee of the mountain like the dragonspawn?”

“No. I arrived only this morning,” Ebonhorn said. He had a calculating look on his face, and he kept glancing between Wrathion and Sabellian. Did he know who Wrathion was? “I came here because of a vision.”

“A vision,” Sabellian repeated, unimpressed.

Wrathion glanced through a crack in his fingers and eyed the tauren.

“Yes. I have many as a Spiritwalker.” Ebonhorn glared at him, like he wasn’t used to being questioned. Sabellian snorted.

“Ebonhorn is not your real name, is it?”

The tauren pinned his ears back. They sat flush to his skull. He ground his teeth and stomped a foot again.

It was bizarre. If Sabellian hadn’t been able to smell his draconic scent, he would have never have guessed this tauren was a black dragon. He acted so like the race it was almost unnerving.

“Ebyssian.”

“I see. Well, Ebyssian, Black Dragons do nothing for free - especially saving another from an injury. What do you want?”

“I am not like other Black Dragons,” Ebyssian insisted, frustration building again in his voice. “Though you seem sane enough.”

Sabellian narrowed his eyes. Wrathion had dropped his hands from his face.

“I am free from corruption,” Ebyssian said at last. “Let me help.”

The cavern went quiet. 

Then Sabellian barked a laugh. No, no, no. No. Not this again.

“Oh? There’s another one of you? Are you a whelp too?”

“What? No, I am - full-grown,” Ebyssian said with a bewildered expression. He shook out his head. “It may be hard to believe, and I don’t mean to make enemies of your party with the admission, but I speak the truth.”

“Every dragon born on Azeroth is taken by the Old Gods,” Sabellian said. His amusement began to fade, and quickly, into anger again. He didn’t have time for this. He didn’t have time to entertain some deluded old dragon.  _ Somehow _ he had Pyria, but he needed the others too, waiting for them deeper in the mountain. “Enough of this. Go away.”

“I’m coming,” Ebyssian said, and his voice took on a growl, a tone that no normal tauren could take. “That injury will make her weaker and weaker. I don’t know what you plan to do here, but she will get worse if she’s not treated.”

“We could use a shaman,” Rexxar said. Sabellian gave him a look. Traitor. The half-orc shrugged at him. “We have no healers, Baron. We are already bringing this creature,” he added, and nodded to Gravel.

Gravel sniffed.

“Fine. Then you get to guard him,” Sabellian snapped. As if this “Ebonhorn” was actually a shaman with healing abilities! The idea was absurd. “Gravel. Lead us to somewhere to rest. Now! Go on!”

 

\---

 

They decided to camp in one of the Dwarven ruins: a room sequestered behind a hallway Sabellian hadn’t even noticed until Gravel turned and disappeared.

It was a squat room with a low ceiling, and filled with crushed rock furniture like the tavern from before. Wrathion had his Agents get rid of some lava-spiders inside and then sweep away their webs, which ended up burning off some of their leather armor.

Rexxar and Sabellian got a fire going, and the half-orc took first watch. Gravel insisted that only a handful of Dragonspawn knew of this place, but Rexxar took watch anyway - as well as Misha, who disappeared into the shadows. He still didn’t know what to make of that bear.

Wrathion kept staring at Ebonhorn from the other side of the room. Sabellian had caught him asking Left for alcohol. When she didn’t have any he asked his other Agents, and when they didn’t have any he asked Rexxar. Rexxar had just stared at him until he’d skulked away. 

Sabellian wondered when Wrathion would just lay down and give up about being the “last black dragon” venture. 

He turned back to Pyria. The drake was still unconscious, but Sabellian had given her his cloak to lay on and Ebonhorn had given her his belt of furs to rest her head. The tauren - dragon - was kneeling down at her side. 

Sabellian kept right next to him. No matter his admission about his lack of corruption, he still didn’t trust the dragon - probably even less because he’d said something so stupid. And especially because he’d given no explanation for it. 

“I’m not going to hurt her,” the tauren rumbled, but did not look up at Sabellian. He felt at Pyria’s forehead and then at the back of her head. 

“I don’t like taking chances with my children.”

Ebonhorn grunted. “Fair.” 

Behind them, he heard Left and another agent leave to hunt. They’d brought some rations, but not much, and they were almost gone. It was hard to feed dragons on so little.

Sabellian watched as Ebonhorn bowed his head and closed his eyes. A beat later, warm green light manifested in his hands.

Healing magic. Shamanistic. He really could do it. Sabellian raised his eyebrows. A shamanistic black dragon?

“You haven’t asked why we’re here,” Sabellian said as Ebonhorn put his glowing hands on the drake’s forehead. Pyria sighed.

“I’ll find out.”

Sabellian stood up straighter. “Is that a threat?”

Ebonhorn glanced sidelong at him. “You are a very suspicious person,” he drawled. Then he looked back at Pyria. He moved his hand from her forehead to the back of her head. The glow followed, dancing behind his fingers. “No. Just an observation.”

“Why are  _ you _ here?”

Ebonhorn sniffed. “You’ll find out.”

Sabellian glared.

“Just some bruising,” Ebonhorn muttered. He pulled his hand back and the glow faded from his fingers. For a moment he slouched, the whole of his body growing lax. Then he shook out his head and stood. “She’ll just need some rest.”

Sabellian frowned. He looked between the two: Pyria, now sleeping soundly, and Ebonhorn watching him. He sighed. What the “tauren” had down really was healing magic - he knew it by the smell - and not something secreted away to harm her. And if he had healed her without asking for anything in return…

Sabellian sighed again.

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

Ebonhorn bowed his head in a strange, bouncing motion of his neck. It felt very foreign.

“She’s young. It isn’t right for her to get hurt.”

Wrathion cleared his throat by the campfire. Sabellian shot him a glare.

Some shuffling came from the back entrance.Left and another Agent entered from the back carrying a basilisk between them. A dagger protruded in one of its cursed eyes. So quick? It must have been lingering close by.

The smell of blood signaled a deep hunger within him; he hadn’t eaten since last night, and even then it’d been a small meal, just four bony condors and a lost ram. Walking so long had burned that energy off a long time ago.

Judging by how Wrathion and Ebonhorn perked up, they felt the same.

Unfortunately it was just one basilisk and not very good eating for three dragons, a half-orc, and two mortals. They sat around a large piece of flat rock that might have once been an actual table. The air was cold and quiet. Left kept staring at Ebonhorn. So did Wrathion. 

Sabellian set his piece aflame; the basilisks in Outland had a sour taste about them when eaten raw.

Ebonhorn opened his mouth wide and touched the flesh with a great array of fire. It seemed dramatic - Sabellian himself had simply cooked it with one hand ablaze- yet some sense of relief and satisfaction relaxed over Ebonhorn’s face after.

“You don’t don your true form much,” Sabellian said. It wasn’t a question. “And I’ve never heard of a dragon - a black dragon - with  _ healing _ magic.”

Ebonhorn snorted quietly. He ripped off a piece of the still-smoking meat.

“Dragons aren’t common where I come from,” he said. “And I have little need of it.” He popped the flesh into his mouth. “As for healing, I’m not quite learned as I’d like to be. The water elementals don’t enjoy much of my company.”

“Where  _ do _ you come from, then?” Wrathion asked. He’d been deathly quiet since the bridge; it was the first time he’d spoken since. It was like how he’d been after the Celestial Trial, close off but ever-watching.

“Thunder Totem, in Highmountain.”

Highmountain: someplace in the Broken Isles. He recalled his father making trips there, though not very often

Wrathion’s eyes lit up.

“Are you really? I’ve heard that my-”

“And you learned shamanism from the tauren, I take it,” Sabellian interrupted. “Did they heal away your corruption too?”

Ebonhorn scowled.

“You are free to disbelieve me if you’d like,” he said. “It makes no difference to me.”

“ _ As _ I was  _ saying _ … I  _ heard  _ that my father made his lair there,” Wrathion said, more forcefully, in the same moment he snorted smoke at Sabellian. The elder dragon rolled his eyes and took another bite of his steak. 

Ebonhorn stopped mid-chew. He looked at Wrathion.

It was not a kind look: all furrowed brows and frowning. It was studying, peering.

“Deathwing was your father?”

Wrathion shrank back, just a little. He grinned. Sabellian knew the boy enough by now that it was a deflection. “I - well, no, not really. But he is in spirit!”

“Ignore him. He’s akin to the village idiot,” Sabellian said. He gave Wrathion a piercing look. “I don’t know why you insist on thinking he is your father after you saw what you did.”

Because what fool would want that monster as a father? Wrathion had seen the vision of Deathwing in Blade’s Edge. Sabellian brushed the vision away, the memory away. Stupid boy.

Wrathion huffed and stuffed a piece of meat in his mouth. His was uncooked, and at once he made a face. It looked like he was about to spit it out, but he managed to swallow it to save face.

“Better than having no father at all,” he said.

“You’re an idiot.”

“You really must come up with some new insults, uncle.”

Ebonhorn sat up a little. “You two are… related?”

“I think he likes to think so,” Sabellian grunted. “If it gives him some tie to my father, he must cling to that.”

Ebonhorn stared at him. “Deathwing was your father, then?”

“Unfortunately.” Sabellian picked at some fat on the bone. 

“I see.” Silence. “He was mine, too.”

Sabellian slowly looked at him.

Claiming a lack of corruption  _ and _ Deathwing’s parentage? Was this a joke? Was he going to have to deal with another Wrathion? 

Was he having another bizarre fever-dream?

He swallowed down his temper and said: “Oh? I don’t remember you in my hatching cave.”

Ebonhorn grunted. He shifted his weight on the rock he perched on, awkward.

“Mine was a different cave -”

“Sinestra only had one clutch from Deathwing,” Sabellian interrupted with a snap. He glared at the tauren. His skin prickled. He was not going to explain this a second time to some wanna-be. “Either you were in my hatching cave, or in some nameless broodmother’s. Not Sinestra’s child, and certainly not Deathwing’s.”

Why did these fools want to tie themselves to such a creature, such a heritage? If Sabellian could, he would sever his bloodline with his father, with his brother and sister and mother. Who cared if it might have given him power with some dull Dragonspawn? Who cared if it gave him rank? The Black Dragonflight was dead. All Sabellian cared about was his family - his brood. Not the rest. He forever had a cloak of shame from them, and if he could wrap it around Wrathion and this idiot, he would, and gladly.

Ebonhorn flared his nostrils. For a flash of a moment, his eyes grew a little red. “My clutch was taken to another cave - Deathwing’s lair - to be put in stasis.” He grew stiff. “For safekeeping.”

“Stasis,” Sabellian repeated.

“Yes.” Ebonhorn looked at him, the cooked flesh in his hands forgotten. “I searched for answers as to why, but there was so little records left in the lair after the tauren and drogbar reclaimed it. Most were destroyed in retribution.” He stomped one hoof and snorted. “I know what Deathwing was. I don’t like it either.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like this, and I was my father’s lieutenant in all things!” Sabellian threw his basilisk off to the side in a fit of anger. “Do you really think such a story is believable? Eggs from my mother, stolen into stasis in my father’s lair? For safe-keeping? You stupid cow -”

“Gravel,” Wrathion called, his voice a shout to rise over Sabellian’s voice. “You could tell Sabellian was Deathwing’s son. What about this one?” He gestured to Ebonhorn.

Gravel looked over. The drakonid was standing at the far end of the room, shadowed by some of the still-standing arches. They blinked. They looked at Ebonhorn, then at Sabellian, then back again.

“Powerful blood,” they rasped at last. “Yes. Son of Deathwing, but younger.” They paused, shrugged, then said: “Not by very much…”

Sabellian stared, bewildered and disbelieving, at Gravel. He looked at the drakonid, then at Ebonhorn, then back again. 

He bared his teeth.

“You’re lying.”

“I live to serve, master,” Gravel said, and bowed their head low. “I only tell my masters the truth. Never lie.”

Was this some trick? Some scam to throw him off? The other Dragonspawn had been overly corrupt, and Gravel -

He rubbed his hands together, growling. What kind of trick would this even be? A lackadaisical one, with no real consequence. If Ebonhorn was younger, even by a little, Gravel would defer to Sabellian either way; Ebonhorn had no sway over the drakonid.

But did he really want to believe the tauren sitting next to him was somehow -

“My my! You have a brother, uncle!” Wrathion said with a sly grin. The ex-Prince looked more than pleased, a stark contrast to his pouting only moments before. It seemed the boy was taking great pleasure in Sabellian’s growing discomfort. “Is this the part where you hug one another?”

Sabellian snarled at him. He shot from his seat. Left snapped her crossbow up, but it jerked off to the side, away from the dragon. She scowled. She couldn’t harm him.

The room went quiet save for the crackling of the fire. Slowly - slowly - the anger bled from Sabellian’s lungs, from his clenched hands, and he sat back down. Heavily.

Ebonhorn had his ears pinned back close to his skull by then. No one said anything for a long time.

“I’m not one for hugs,” Ebonhorn said at last.

Sabellian set his lips in a thin line.

“Good. Neither am I.”

 

\----

 

 

They left early that morning.

At least Sabellian thought it was morning; it was hard to tell down here in the mountain. Gravel waited for them to pack up their belongings - mostly weapons - and began leading the way again.

It was at a quicker pace today. The rest had done them well. Particularly for Pyria, who seemed more and more lucid every time she woke. Even so, she still had to be carried, and spent most of the time sleeping. They’d gotten no other answers or explanations about how she’d managed to track Samia or where the netherdrakes had gone. Sabellian figured the dragonspawn had butchered them, but they’d found no corpses glowing in the din.

Wrathion kept close to Ebonhorn most of the walk, and Sabellian watched them suspiciously. He still didn’t know what to make of the tauren, and Ebonhorn had offered nothing in terms of his lack of corruption, only that it was a “family secret.” The only reason Sabellian had decided not to kick him out was because he was keeping an eye on Pyria, and though his healing abilities were lax, it did seem to be helping her. So what could he do? Push Ebonhorn out and risk Pyria getting worse? Rexxar was right; they did need a healer.

And anyway, if Ebonhorn tried anything funny, Rexxar had set Misha’s eyes on the tauren so that the moment he did anything, the spirit bear would be on him and tearing out his throat within the next beat.

He tried not to think much about how he was his brother, either.

The less he thought about that, the better.

What he also didn’t like Wrathion and Ebonhorn spending so much time together.  He’d overheard Wrathion fill Ebonhorn in on what they were doing there, which angered Sabellian immensely. Brother or not, this dragon could have been sent by the Old Gods just like the Dragonspawn had. He could be lying about everything. But Wrathion, who’d been annoyed at Sabellian’s trusting of Gravel, was now glued to Ebonhorn’s side. Sabellian figured it was just to annoy him, or to get some more information about Deathwing’s old lair. 

Sabellian handed Pyria off for Rexxar’s turn to carry her and decided to inch up closer to the two to listen in on their conversation.

“When I hatched, they didn’t really know what to do with me,” Ebonhorn was saying. “Huln took me back to his home in Thunder Totem. I suppose he tried his best. He learned what he could from the dragons traveling from the war, though he could never say or ask too detailed a question. He knew if anyone found out about me…”

The words trailed into silence. They all knew the threat left unsaid: he’d have been killed, or taken away, or stalked by enemies of the Black Dragonflight.

Which meant almost everyone.

“Oh, you hardly have to explain that to me,” Wrathion said with a light laugh. “I’ve had Red dragons stalking me since I was born.  _ Before  _ that, even.”

Ebonhorn grunted and shook out his hair. Sabellian stared at him. He wondered how the dragon could deal with so much… fur.

“It was because of Huln I never had to deal with that, then. I owed him my life. Everything.” Ebonhorn sighed. “Before he passed I promised him I would watch over his family and guide them, as he had guided me. I’ve been in Highmountain ever since.”

“And they know what you are by now, I trust,” Sabellian said. “A ‘Spiritwalker Ebonhorn’ lingering for near-ten-thousand years would grow… suspect.”

“I change my identity when needed,” Ebonhorn said. He glanced back to eye Sabellian. Wrathion did too, but with a glare. “But I am always an advisor to the descendants of Huln.”

“All this for a single mortal?” It sounded as if Ebonhorn hadn’t even tried to seek out any of his real family - or any other dragons, for that matter. No wonder he acted so much like  mortal. He glanced at Wrathion.

And here he’d thought the boy had been the only odd one.

Ebonhorn frowned.

“Huln Highmountain gave me a free life,” he said, “only because he knew it was right. I owe him something I can never truly repay. If I can aid his family with whatever guidance I have to offer, I will do so, and gladly. They are the children of Highmountain, and Highmountain is my home.” He swept aside a boulder in their way with a wave of his hand, and it went tumbling into the abyss. Wrathion caught Sabellian watching this uncomfortably. “It is not just for one mortal. It is for all of them.”

Wrathion tilted his head. 

They all had their own purpose, he supposed. They all had their reasons for seclusion. Sabellian his family, Wrathion his defense crusade - or whatever it was - and Ebonhorn… a tribe of fuzzy mortals.

“And a vision led you here?” Wrathion asked. 

“Yes. An urgent one.”

Wrathion leaned in a little. “Like?”

Ebonhorn frowned at him. 

Ah.  _ This _ was what Wrathion was after. The dragon had mentioned something about a vision on the bridge.

“The Mountain heaved on roiled on the horizon, as if the very earth was trying to push it off her back,” the tauren said. “There were eyes and shadows that grabbed, but the Earthmother urged me to delve inside. And now I’ve found you all. I don’t know if healing the drake is my only purpose for being here, but - I suppose I’ll find out.”

“The Earthmother?” Sabellian interrupted. “You don’t really believe in such mortal nonsense.”

“Nonsense? It is the furthest from it,” Ebonhorn said with a huff.

“So the Earthmother gives you these visions?” Wrathion piped up. He scooted closer to Ebonhorn. Sabellian squinted at him. 

“She does,” the tauren rumbled. “I received my first visions when I was very young.”

“How young?”

It sounded like he was trying - and failing - to sound vaguely disinterested. Instead there was a rapturous look to his eyes, fixed solely on the tauren. 

Ebonhorn frowned in thought. “A month, perhaps. It was a simple vision: a spirit reaching toward me. Even in a conscious state I have never felt such comfort.”

Sabellian’s mouth went numb. For a breath he felt the force trying to reach for him in his dream. A force which shied away when he flinched.

He shook himself out.

Wrathion stared at Ebonhorn with wonder: an undisguised wonder that seemed almost dreamy on his face.

“What else does she show you? Prophecies? Warnings?”

“I don’t like being questioned so much,” Ebonhorn rumbled. “Enough for now.”

“Wait! Wait a moment. Wait. I ask  _ only _ because I have similar experiences.” Wrathion grinned a hungry grin. “I didn’t know other dragons had such things!” 

“You have visions as well?” Ebonhorn’s annoyance left his face. He looked at Wrathion with a new interest. Sabellian shifted his weight and grumbled.

“Yes. From Azeroth. I suppose you call her the Earthmother, yes? Fascinating. I always assumed the tauren thought her a different entity entirely.”

“So I do.” Ebonhorn scratched underneath his chin and hummed. “And yes. To answer your question. Prophecies, though - rarely. Very rarely. Warnings, though - yes. Much of those. Much like the one that led me here.”

“What about anything about the Legion?”

“The… Legion?” 

“Yes! Destroyed cities? Rivers of blood?”

Ebonhorn stared at him. Wrathion stared back, but began to wilt underneath the older dragon’s look. 

“No.”

Wrathion drooped a little. “Oh.”

Sabellian growled softly. Of course he recalled Wrathion telling him of such visions; he’d figured them detritus of corruption, madding images to instill doubt and fear in the boy.

But - truly, from Azeroth? And this other fool received the same?

The two lucky purified ones, receiving blessed images.

Of course.

His thoughts lingered to his dream again.

“No, no Legion visions… but she’s helped guide me and thus guide Highmountain for the span of my life.” Ebonhorn seemed more relaxed now, and like Wrathion, more open. More trusting. It was a fragile trust, but Sabellian saw it in his face.

Sabellian growled again.

“But I’ve only heard from her only a handful of times,” Wrathion said. “It  _ seems _ like you hear from her constantly.”

“I’ve trained with shamans to better attune with her,” Ebonhorn said.

“Oh. So you call on her, not the other way around?”

“When needed. But sometimes she is the one who reaches out.”

Gravel suddenly stopped in front of them. Wrathion almost rammed into the Dragonspawn.

“Here,” they said.

They’d stopped in front of a large archway. Sabellian looked around them. 

It led out into a platform that overlooked an enormous antechamber. The ceiling stretched higher than seemed stable for the mountain, and it rounded nearly fifteen dragon-lengths in all directions. Sculptures of dragon heads lined the circumference of the cavern, all obsidian and gleaming in the darkness. Below there was a large flat area for easy walking - easy walking for dragons. This might have been a dwarven city, once. A long time ago, when the buildings had once been but were now crushed to be sitting areas for creatures far larger. 

And that was only the lowest level. There were two others, sitting on one another. They were on the third. These had similar archways like the one they now stood in, which opened up to different, unseen tunnels that delved into deeper areas of the mountain. Skeletons of prey littered the second level in particular, and it smelled like deep earth and mildew. A water source? Rare indeed. But the smell was undeniable. 

And so was the other obvious smell: dragon.

“And?” Sabellian pressed.

Gravel cocked their head. “Here,” they said again. “The beginning of their territory.”

Wrathion stiffened. Then Sabellian heard it: a sliding of scales against stone, coming from one of the second level tunnels.

“It’s about time you came back,” a voice echoed from it. A massive shape came lumbering out. 

It was not Samia. Or Vaxian. It was someone Sabellian hadn’t seen in years. “You always take so long to hunt, Serinar -”

Furywing stopped as she saw them. 

The broodmother, one of the four other dragons to accompany Sabellian to Outland years ago, backed up in a flurry.

“Who are you?” Her eyes, yellow as a new ember, fixed on Sabellian. She hissed, her eyes widening in surprise.

From above, a head popped out from another alcove. Another dragon, full-grown and ram-horned, stared down at them.

“Oh,” she said. “Interesting.”

 

 


	39. Chapter 39

 

Sabellian and Furywing stared at one another.

The last time he'd seen her, she was on her way to the Black Portal.

He took a step forward.

She took a step back, turned, and fled back through the tunnel.

“Who are you lot, then?” asked the remaining dragon. She stared at them with a dull expression. “More hideaways? No one but her and I for ages and suddenly everyone starts showing up.”

Sabellian ignored her. He leaped from the platform and shifted mid-fall, landing with a crack on the stone below.

 _Furywing_.

He vaulted after her despite the shouts from the others. Within a handful of footfalls he was in the tunnel she had disappeared into.

How was she alive?

He heard her up ahead; Sabellian stormed after her. The tunnel was vast – vast enough that even he was not cramped for space – and dark. This was not Dwarven-made. It felt more natural.

It curved suddenly, and as he turned with it, he found himself awash in light. Sabellian halted so his eyes could adjust. The tunnel had opened into a circular cavern lit with torches, large as an orc and bolted around the walls.

Furywing was at the far corner, her back to him, her sides heaving. She looked the same as she had all those years ago: blueish-black of scale with a blacker underbelly and wings wide and red. She was maybe a little skinnier, making her ram-like horns seem too big for her face and the scars on her tail and back legs deeper than normal. Scars from Gruul's first attack.

“You live!” It was a question, a command, a curse. He stalked forward. “ _You!_ ”

Betrayer!

Furywing turned to look at him, her gold eyes full of fright.

“I'm the only one left,” she said. “Please -”

“Father?”

Sabellian stopped. He flared his nostrils.

Samia walked from behind Furywing in her human guise.

“ _Father_?” she repeated with increasing disbelief. “Wait – don't kill her,” she added with a flash of hurry. “Just listen -”

Sabellian's anger and revulsion eked away at once.

“Stupid girl!” he interrupted with a snarl. “I told you to stay home!”

He shoved past Furywing, the traitor, coward, and swept out his paw to pull Samia close to him.

She looked whole. Uninjured. She looked maybe a little annoyed at being handled around like a whelp, but – she was safe.

_Safe._

“Well, I had to come rescue you,” she said, her voice wavering. “That didn't really work out like I wanted it to, though.”

He snorted smoke.

“Clearly not,” he said. “What are you doing here? Why did you go with Serinar? You despise the idiot.”

“I thought you were dead.” Samia looked up at him, and now he saw the reason for her wavering voice: her face was full of the same relief he felt, her eyes disbelieving. “Wrathion told us he killed you. I thought he might be lying... but I never found out because of the Dragonmaw.”

Sabellian softened. He ran a claw down the side of her face with a gentleness his wicked talons, each large as a man, belied.

“He certainly tried,” he said. “And certainly believed I was dead. But I am here, as are you. We are safe.”

She smiled. Her expression grew a bit more controlled, a bit more in-check. It was like watching a reflection.

“You really shouldn't blame me for coming after you,” she said, and gave him a flat look. “ _You_ were late in coming back, and after the Blacktalon Agents attacked Blade's Edge, I knew I had to do something.” Her face soured. “Or try to do something. Father, I'm sorry, but... I don't know what happened to Pyria. She was with me and Vaxian and she disappeared after the Dragonmaw caught us.”

“Pyria is with me.”

She sucked in a breath. “What? She is? How? Where'd you find her?”

Sabellian explained their journey into Blackrock, the dragonkin, and finding the drake injured but alive. She listened silently, her eyes intent and unwavering. When he finished, her shoulders seemed to melt into her back and she sighed a deep, relieved sigh.

“Thank the Titans,” she murmured and ran a hand through her hair. “I knew she might be okay. I hoped... whatever. I just don't understand. How did she track us?”

“I don't know. She'll have to explain when she wakes.” He shook his head, and with the movement shifted down into his human form to be on her level. He took her shoulders in his hands and kept her at arm's length. “Samia. Whatever the case, I have come for you and Vaxian. We're going home.”

“Home?” she repeated. “What about Wrathion?”

“He's been taken care of.”

She looked at him with a hungry glint. “Is he dead?”

“No. Something a bit sweeter, however. He's here with me. You'll have time to ask him about his punishment, I'm sure.” He frowned. “But you didn't answer my other question. Why did you come here with Serinar? What happened at the Vale?”

How foolish of him. In his relief he had forgotten his earlier fears about her possible corruption. How could she have escaped an explosion of Old God energy and be left untouched? She was acting normal, acting herself, but that's what it was like. You acted yourself until you turned and started killing because you simply felt like it.

Samia grunted softly. “We didn't have much of a choice with Serinar,” she said. “When the Vale exploded... we escaped, and Serinar told us he knew somewhere safe where we could rest and recuperate. I went here for Vaxian. His wing is broken terribly.”

“You could have carried him home,” he insisted. He peered down at her. Studying.

“But we still had to find you – dead _or_ alive,” Samia said stubbornly. “Not to mention find Pyria and the nether-drakes. I wasn't going to slink home defeated, and – the nether-drakes! Was Pyria alone?”

“When we found her, she was,” he explained dismissively. “Though she said the nether-drakes were with her when they entered the mountain.”

Samia frowned, her brows furrowed. “So they could be in here somewhere.”

“Maybe.”

“Father! Didn't it hit you to look for them or ask those dragonkin?”

“I wasn't about to go on some wild hunt for dragons I care little for,” he said. “I'm only here for you and Vaxian.”

Samia looked like she had a lot to say about that, the way her face screwed up. Before she could berate him further, Sabellian swerved.

“And you are feeling... well?”

She gave him an odd look.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Samia's face hardened. “I've heard nothing.”

“You're certain?” he pressed. “Nothing?”

Samia frowned at him irritably. “I think I would know if I was corrupted or not,” she said. “I'm not one of the younger ones. I remember what it feels like.” She softened. “I'm surprised, too. The Vale – Father, it was unlike anything I'd ever seen.” Her gaze grew distant, as if she was back there in the smoke and destruction. She shook her head. “That, and being down here. Uncle Nefarian's old laboratories are just a mile away, did you know? I haven't dared try to get closer, though. I don't want to see any... oddities.”

“Wonderful.”

She smiled apologetically, but it fell from her lips almost at once. “I'm worried about Vaxian, though. He's weak and hasn't woken up very much. Seldarria's trying to take care of him -”

“Who?”

“Seldarria,” she repeated, then caught herself and said: “Oh. She's the other dragon here with Furywing.”

That must have been the dragon at the entrance.

Speaking of Furywing – he glanced around, and saw she was pressed close to the opposite wall. He growled, though she wasn't looking at them.

He felt a hand on his arm and looked at Samia. “Try not to be too hard on her,” she said quietly. “She and I have spoken a lot since I came here. She's really just the same as before.”

“A coward?”

“Father,” she said sternly. “Try to be nice for once.”

He grunted.

“Let me talk to her,” he said. “Alone.”

“Sure.” She went to move away, but Sabellian caught her and pulled her into a tight embrace. She stiffened against him in surprise, but a heartbeat later pulled her arms around his back and returned it. He squeezed her and closed his eyes. Soon this nightmare would be over. Soon they would go home, to the others, to their family, the only thing that mattered. She was safe. His eldest daughter, the sole survivor of his first clutch from Gruul's assault, alive and whole and safe.

She was the one to pull away first. “Aw, Father,” she said. “You old soft-serve.”

He grunted again, embarrassed. “Go on, then. Let the others know I haven't fallen into a trap back here.”

Samia nodded. Before she left, she squeezed his arm and said: “I'm glad you're alright.” Then she was gone, her footsteps echoing away through the tunnel.

His good mood faded as he was left with Furywing. He could smell her nervous energy.

“I know you must be angry at me,” she said. “And I'm sorry. I didn't have much of a choice when we left.”

Sabellian turned and shifted back into his true form in the same motion. He growled and flexed his claws. “Because your other little friends wanted their old life back? We had orders.”

Furywing's eyes darted from side to side. “It was a mistake.”

Sabellian growled again. “A month after you left, Gruul came and killed half of Deathwing's eggs, seven of my children, and Kesia.”

He took some amount of pleasure from her pained look.

“Kesia is dead? I heard rumors about Blade's Edge, but I...”

“I'm sure what you heard is true,” he said. “Where are the others?”

“They're dead.”

This time, he took quite a lot of pleasure from the admission.

Who was the fool now?

“Obsidia died in the Twilight Highlands,” Furywing murmured. “Kill by mortals. She was one of the last broodmothers alive. And Rivedark was killed at Wyrmrest during the Hour of Twilight.” Her voice faltered. “Insidion... Insidion was killed by a group of Bronze near Dustwallow.”

“A shame,” he said. “Insidion was one of the decent ones.”

She looked at him like he was unsure if he was mocking her or not.

“How did you come to be here, then?” he asked, his tone dismissive as it was uninterested.

“I thought this place would be abandoned after Nefarian fell again,” she explained warily. “I found Seldarria here. We've been here since the end of the Cataclysm.”

“It never occurred to you to come back to Blade's Edge?”

“What for? We all thought you had died when Gruul came again. We heard no word from you, no message when your Father returned...” She picked at her front talons. “Especially after we heard about the dragons impaled on the mountains.” She bowed her head: a subtle way of averting her eyes. “I'm so sorry. I never wanted -”

“Don't apologize to me,” he snapped. She flinched. “You knew as well as all of us did that you were leaving my brood and I for dead.”

Sabellian had known his father's orders to stay and guard the eggs – eggs that would one day become the Netherwing – meant nearly certain death. But with the others there – four highly trained bonded pairs of dragons – he'd thought they'd had a chance. That together, they could use their combined wit and force to outsmart (not very difficult) and outfight (a little bit more difficult) Gruul the Dragonkiller.

Then they'd abandoned him.

All because they missed their old life, no matter if it meant them being corrupted. No matter if it meant any future clutches they had would be born as servants in the thrall of the void.

_Cowards. Betrayers._

Furywing lifted her head. She met his eyes. “My consort wanted to go. I had to make a choice, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, and because of that choice, both of our consorts are dead.”

“None of us can see into the future!” she cried. Her wings flared up around her, and the light of the torches caught her red membranes. It illuminated the reason for her name: root-like striations through the webbing, deep, deep black and fearsome, flickering in the glow of the torches. The black seemed to shimmer in the glow, ominous like spilled blood. Furywing.

“All I knew was that I felt lost all the time. Aimless. We were there to protect the eggs, but... but it wasn't the same... I didn't feel like myself.” She shook her head. “And Insidion felt the same. We just wanted to go home.”

“And be corrupted once again,” Sabellian said, his voice dripping with malice.

“At least it was normal for us,” she said. Her face was full of shame. “And least it gave us purpose.”

“Yes. And now look where that grand purpose has led you! Hiding like a rat in the dark!”

“And you're here with me,” she snapped, then softened. “We can't all be strong like Samia or you or how Kesia was. I _am_ alone. But at least I still feel like I'm doing what I was made to do.”

“Being a monster?”

She looked at him in the eye, unwavering. “By following what the Black Dragonflight has always been. At least I know what I really am.”

The implication was like a kick in the snout. How dare she? His fins flared high on his head.

“All you are is a coward,” he hissed. “Enough of this. Stay out of my way. You owe me that much, worm.”

Furywing wilted at once.

“I suppose it is.”

\---

 

Sabellian heard his daughter's voice far before he came back to the main chamber.

“I should kill you right now, you self-righteous little prick!”

Sabellian emerged into the cavern. In the center, Samia was looming in front of Wrathion, one finger pointed at his chest. Seldarria watched the from the side, still near the tunnel she'd poked her head out when they'd arrived. Left stood behind the ex-Prince, her hand gripped right on her crossbow. It was loaded.

“I didn't _know_ Goya was going to trap us,” Wrathion was saying. “I hardly -”

“You were going to kill us _anyway_ , prat!” Samia jabbed her finger at Wrathion's chest. Left growled.

Sabellian came to her side and shifted into his human form. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Don't bother spending your anger on him,” he said. “He's already received his punishment and more.”

Samia glared at the whelp. With one last, lingering scowl, she moved away. But not before stomping on his foot. His face lit up red with pain but he bravely stifled the yelp Sabellian saw balloon in his throat.

“So you truly are the Black Prince?” Furywing asked from behind them. She'd crept after Sabellian after they'd spoken, and now sat at the tunnel entrance, keeping as far away from Sabellian as she could.

“Just Wrathion, now,” Wrathion said stiffly, and cast an annoyed look at Sabellian.

“Nice new outfit, by the way,” Samia said. “You look like a homeless pirate.”

“And you look like a poor adventurer!”

“You're going to try to kill us,” Seldarria butt in. She was an older dragon, maybe seven thousand years old, with a generous amount of plumpness around her ribs. Like Furywing she had no fins, but did have sloping horns that swept close to her neck and then curved skyward at the points. They were quite unique.

“No,” Wrathion insisted. “I am _only_ here to -”

“Kill us!”

“No!” He looked exasperatedly at Sabellian, who stared back at him. This was his reputation; he was going to have to deal with it himself. The whelp glared at him, then looked back at Seldarria with a calmer, more sly, expression. “I am here to help Sabellian get his son and daughter. It's a contract I'm under. Unfortunately.”

“I don't trust you,” she said. “You all come waltzing in here with Nefarian's brother just to get a couple of dragons who could just fly away by themselves any time they want?” She looked at Wrathion, her distrust as palpable as a smell.

“It's true, Seldarria,” Sabellian cut in, tiring of the tirade. It sounded like someone had filled in the dragon what they were doing there. “And don't worry yourself over him. The contract is true as well. He's more of a prisoner than a helper, anyway.”

“I don't see any chains,” she said, but without as much venom as before. She watched Sabellian warily. She saw him as the real threat, he realized – not Wrathion. Not as much, at least.

And why wouldn't she? She was sequestered near Nefarian's old lair that Sabellian, being the remaining son, could stake a claim to if he wanted. Not like he did. No doubt she worried their time here was up.

“They're magical in nature,” he said. “We're only here for my children. Nothing more.”

Seldarria twitched her claws. She glanced back at the nearest tunnel.

“So you'll be leaving soon.”

“Tonight, if possible.”

Samia straightened. “What about Vaxian?”

“What about him?”

“He can't travel.”

“No, I assumed he'd still be able to fly with a broken wing,” he drawled irritably. “I was going to carry him.”

“But he has an infection.”

“You didn't mention that before,” he said, eyeing her.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was busy being overwhelmed because my father was back from the dead.”

Sabellian scowled. She was certainly pushing her attitude.

“Luckily we have a healer,” he said and nodded at Ebonhorn.

The tauren had said nothing since entering the cavern. At least that Sabellian had seen. He watched with a keen eye as they had spoken, but when spoken to, looked uncomfortable.

“Somewhat,” the tauren said.

Samia frowned at him. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Spiritwalker Ebonhorn,” he said. “Ebyssian.”

“Never heard of _you_ before,” Seldarria said. “And you look like a cow! Very charming, dear.”

Ebonhorn pinned his ears back and snorted smoke.

“He's here to help like the boy is,” Sabellian said. “Excuse us for a moment, Seldarria.”

She rolled her shoulders back.

“Oh, alright,” she sighed. “I have to check on something anyway.” She glanced at Furywing before rising and going into the cave she'd come from before.

Furywing was too far away for hear to overhear. Sabellian flicked a hand to beckon everyone closer.

“What do they know, girl?” he asked, looking at Samia.

“As far as?”

“Does Seldarria know what Outland did for us?”

“It never really came up,” Samia confessed. “Furywing does. At least, maybe... she might think we're already corrupted now that we're back, though.”

He'd thought the same. She seemed to hint that she knew he was pure – for the time being – but she could have just been talking about the past.

“Good. We're going to pretend we're just like them.” He eyed Wrathion. “Though that won't help you much. That bird has flown.”

“Corrupted?” Ebonhorn echoed. “Why?”

“I'm sorry, who is this, actually?” Samia interrupted, pointing at Ebonhorn.

“Your uncle,” Wrathion said, smiling when Sabellian gave him an evil look. Samia looked at Sabellian, then at Ebonhorn, then back again.

“Wait. What?”

“I'll explain later. Or he can tell you, I don't care,” Sabellian said irritably. “Now, as I was _saying_. The dragonkin that attacked us knew our... condition. If Furywing and Seldarria come to know – I don't feel like fighting.”

“We didn't even tell the dragonkin who were with us,” Wrathion said. “They just _knew_. No doubt these two know already. They were probably warned.”

“The Old Gods planted the thoughts in the dragonkins' minds,” Sabellian said dismissively. “They're lower life forms; it's easier for them to be swayed. It isn't as if all Black Dragons know what the Old Gods know.”

Wrathion looked unsure. And uncomfortable.

“But they can still be swayed,” he said.

“Yes,” Sabellian said. “But it'll probably take more time. The Old Gods ramp up to things like that. It starts with paranoia, intrusive thoughts – they won't suddenly snap and foam at the mouth calling for our blood like those stupid dragonkin.” A prickly feeling rippled up his skin every time he said _Old Gods_. Down here, surrounded by the earth, he felt as if he were invoking them with every utterance of their names, even a broad a term as that one. “Of course They know we're here. But the more quiet and less suspicious they are, the better we shall fare.” He glanced at Samia. “And the quicker we leave. They don't like not having control of their toys. Understood?”

They all nodded, though Wrathion looked troubled.

“Where is Vaxian, then?” Sabellian asked Samia.

She nodded to the western-most tunnel. “Leads up to a lead that overlooks the cavern. I can lead you to -”

“No. Stay here and watch the boy. He can explain what you missed. Ebonhorn, come with me.”

The tauren grunted.

“Yes, leave me with the dragon who wants to kill me,” Wrathion mumbled.

“Oh, yes, as for you,” Sabellian said, looking at the boy. “ _You_ only said you felt Vaxian and Samia down here. How did you miss two full grown dragons and nearly fifty dragonkin?”

Wrathion's face fell. “These two must've been blocking me. Somehow.” The ex-prince looked even more troubled than before. He picked at his sleeves and looked around, as if wondering if there were any more lurking dragons in the dark.

“And can we expect your next tantrum because you found more family members you thought you were dead?”

“Oh, not to worry,” Wrathion drawled. “I'm getting rather used to it.”

His smile was strained.

“Rexxar, come with – where _is_ he?”

“Up here,” called a gruff voice. Sabellian looked up. Rexxar was sitting on the second level of the cavern: the level they'd arrived on. He was still standing on the ledge with Gravel. Keeping guard, perhaps.

“Come down here. Bring Pyria with you.”

Rexxar gave a curt nod. Within moments he was at Sabellian's side, and without so much as a gesture Misha trumped out of the shadows. On her back lay Pyria. She was small enough and the bear big enough that it was comfortable for the both of them.

“Oh, Titans,” Samia said. She rushed forward and held Pyria's face in her hands. “I should have been there to help. She was the one who freed us in the first place from inside the Black Market.”

“Ebonhorn will get her up soon enough,” Sabellian said. Ebonhorn wrinkled his nose. “Let's go.”

Sabellian turned and started toward the tunnel Samia had pointed out. Rexxar, Misha, and Ebonhorn followed.

“You don't trust her,” the half-orc said when they were out of earshot and Ebonhorn was far enough away from them he probably wouldn't hear. The innards of the tunnel were almost identical to the one they'd come from: all black and red rock. Dried magma oozed along the path.

Of course. How hadn't he thought of that before? They must been in an emptied lava belly. The tunnels were where the lava had flowed, and the main chamber where it had pooled. Maybe it had been emptied by the dwarves millenia again so they could build their now-ruined settlement in the main chamber, or to direct the lava to a place that would suit their needs better.

“No,” Sabellian said. “No yet.”

“She did not seem...”

“Insane? No. But that's not quite how it works.” He paused. It was always hard to explain what it was like to others, and something he did not entertain much in speaking aloud. “It's not as if you suddenly become someone else. You start having thoughts. They seem like yours, but they're not. And then one day you may look at, say, your little bear there and think slitting her throat might be amusing.”

Misha shook her head and snorted.

“You never think _you're_ insane,” Sabellian went on in a slow drawl. “You're just going what you think you should be doing.”

“Even if it means doing something you'd never do.”

Sabellian snorted, sounding quite like Misha. “Yes. Though you only realize that after the corruption leaves you. If it ever does.”

Like when he arrived on Outland. Realizing his entire life was a lie. Realizing he was just a husk, a puppet.

“I'll kept an eye on her,” he said. “And the others. No matter Vaxian's condition, the longer we linger, the longer They have time to do something on their behalf. More than they already have.”

 

* * *

 

Vaxian was just where Samia had said he would be.

The chamber was long but the ceiling very short – short enough the ears on Rexxar's wolf-helm brushed the top. Pieces of dwarven architecture lay in a heap along the far wall: columns, bricks, even doors, among other things. It might have been from the ruined stone town from the main chamber. Some of the longer, flatter pieces had been put together to make beds, however, and on some lay a cushion of thin dry cave moss. On the one closest to the western wall lay Vaxian.

He was sleeping soundly on his back, one hand flat on his chest which rose and fell in steady breaths. Even though he knew to expect him, Sabellian felt a rush of relief. Another child safe.

Rexxar said Vaxian had gotten his wing broken fighting off the Dragonmaw so Samia could escape with the others, though she hadn't left him. A flicker of anger rose in his chest. That was not like the Black Dragonflight; Nefarian himself had tried to kill Sabellian dozens of times. They _could_ be more than their curse that his father had given them. Furywing was just weak.

Sabellian went over to the dragon and placed his hand on his forehead. A little colder than it should have been. He frowned thoughtfully.

Next to him, Rexxar set down Pyria in the empty bed. She didn't stir.

“He smells like a roast,” Rexxar rumbled.

“Herbs,” Sabellian said distractedly. “Cinderbloom, Frostvine. Some sort of lotus.” He lifted his hand from Vaxian's forehead. “At least they're treating him for whatever infection he has.”

“You doubted as much?” asked Ebonhorn from behind.

So he hadn't overheard them about Sabellian's doubts about Samia. Or he had, or was playing dumb.

“I only have some suspicions,” Sabellian said. “Come take a look at him.”

He moved away. Ebonhorn took his place.

So fixated on Vaxian before, he hadn't noticed the opening right to his side. It acted more like a window than anything else. A quick glance outside shown it overlooked the main chamber and allowed a nice airflow. Good for a makeshift sick bay. Better than stale air.

“The Dragonmaw should have suffered more losses than they did,” Rexxar growled off to the side. “They are brutes. Even the lowest beast has greater valor than him.”

“Their deeds will catch up to them,” Sabellian rumbled. And indeed they had, if Wrathion's reports from the Vale were true, and much of their “catch” had gotten away. If only they had the time, and Sabellian the energy! He'd make them pay even more himself.

But he had a brood, other children, to go back to. And at least Samia and Vaxian had escaped and were alright, now.

That was all that really mattered.

Ebonhorn was kneeling near Vaxian's cot. He turned the dragon on his side to inspect his back. It'd been ripped open to reveal bruises black and yellow, marring his brown skin with vigor.

“How is it his injuries manifest in his human form?” Rexxar asked. “If he lacks wings in it?”

“The pain would be in his back, at the core of where the wing joint would sprout during transformation,” Ebonhorn said without looking up. “You can't escape the pain just by shifting into something else. And he shouldn't be in this form to begin with. It's stunting healing.”

Sabellian crossed his arms over his chest. That was a good point.

“Get Pyria settled first,” he said. “Then we'll wake him and have him shift to assess the real damage.”

Ebonhorn looked at him. “I told you I'm not the best healer.”

“But you're our only healer.” He wished, for the first time since this nightmare began, Anduin Wrynn was here. “I'll aid as I can with my alchemy, though my reagent stores are... limited.” That was being generous. He _maybe_ had enough to make three health potions, if that. “Rexxar. Do me a favor and ask Seldarria what herbs she's been using. She must have some stored away.”

“I think you owe me many favors after this is over,” the half-orc mused. Sabellian mumbled. Rexxar snorted in amusement at him and left with Misha.

Silence fell over the chamber. Some distant voices rose from below, but they were too far away that Sabellian couldn't hear them clearly. He thought one might have been Samia.

After a time, Ebonhorn lay Vaxian on his back and stood. He readjusted the moss bedding.

“Why are you here?”

Ebonhorn looked up at him.

“What?”

“At Blackrock.”

Ebonhorn gave him an annoyed look. “I told you. A vision from the Earthmother -”

“I know that,” Sabellian said. “But you came all this way because a dream told you to?”

Ebonhorn leveled his eyes at him. “It was more than a dream,” he said. “I've never felt such urgency in my life.”

_The Mountain heaved on roiled on the horizon, as if the very earth was trying to push it off her back. There were eyes and shadows that grabbed, but the Earthmother urged me to delve inside. And now I’ve found you all. I don’t know if healing the drake is my only purpose for being here, but - I suppose I’ll find out._

Sabellian gazed out of the window. “It doesn't sound like any of such doom will come to pass,” he said, but even as it left his lips he knew it was only because he hoped it was so. He had Wrathion, he had his missing children. He wanted no more threats moving over his head.

“I could have misread the vision of darkness and a thousand watching eyes,” Ebonhorn rumbled flatly.

“It sounds like a vision from the Old Gods themselves,” Sabellian said. He remembered saying the very same thing to Wrathion when the boy had explained he'd had visions of rivers of blood from Azeroth and the Legion's coming invasion. Such doom, such paranoia. What the Old Gods thrived on. “Do you not find it odd that you were led to a pit of your own corrupted kind?”

“You are a very paranoid dragon,” Ebonhorn said.

“It's kept me alive.”

“Maybe,” the tauren replied. He joined Sabellian at the ledge and took off his skull helm. It revealed an aged, graying brow and scars etched in places the bones had hid in their shadows.

Together they watched the dragons below: Seldarria back again, curled up close to her tunnel, Furywing speaking quietly to Samia off to the side, and Wrathion standing on his own, looking around with a suspicious, wary expression.

“My vision led me here to my corrupted kin for a reason,” Ebonhorn said quietly. “Already I find myself needed, even if it is something I'm not trained as well in.” He paused. “And it is not the dragons below that I worry about.”

“Then you and I have that in common,” Sabellian said. Seldarria, Furywing – they were just prisoners like every Black Dragon before them, and every Black Dragon to come. The true fear was those lurking below. The thousands of eyes.

They stood in silence for a while, watching the remains of their Flight below.

“Are we what you imagined?” Sabellian asked.

“I don't know,” Ebonhorn rumbled. “I never tried to seek out my own kind because I feared rejection. I feared I would be attacked because I wasn't like them.” One of his ears twitched. “I decided it wasn't worth it, in the end. How could I find comfort or companionship in a Flight built on the darkness I always lacked?” He put his hands on the ledge and heaved a sigh. “But this... there's such an air of desperation and sadness. It's... disheartening.”

“Pathetic, you mean.”

Ebonhorn snorted. “I was trying to word it more kindly,” he said. “But, yes. That as well.”

“You are much different than the rest of us if you're actively trying to be kind. Black dragons don't do well with that.”

“The corrupted don't,” he said, then caught himself. “My apologies. I didn't mean -”

“Don't bother yourself. I know what I am.”

Or what he could be.

But Furywing... perhaps she was right.

Deep down he was just like her. And nothing would ever change that.

But the tauren was right too. The might Black Dragonflight now reduced to this: hiding in the dark, waiting to be hunted. Father would be ashamed.

And he should have been.

He had helped do this to them. He had been the truly weak one. He had failed them all. And when the Aspect fell, the rest of them had. If you were the Aspect, the rest of the blood followed. No matter their choice.

What did Furywing and Seldarria even hope to do here? Hide and survive? Did the Old Gods want them to wait, to gain power, until the mortals were weak?

But there were only two dragons, and only fifty dragonkin. They'd be dead within a week – if not less.

And this... this was the fate of his own family. Come here to grow corrupted and die, or die when Outland finally fell apart and they fell into the Twisting Nether.

Sabellian's shoulders fell. He was only saving his children so they could die at a later time, far before they should pass.

Desperate and pathetic indeed.

He was no better than the rest of them.

“It was a Titan artifact.”

“What?”

Ebonhorn looked down at his hands. “It was a Titan artifact that cured me of corruption.”

Sabellian could have laughed. Of course it was. “As with the boy,” he said. Ebonhorn looked at him sharply. “Are you some stitched-together abomination too?”

“... No,” Ebonhorn said.“When the tauren and drogbar raided Father's lair, they found the Hammer of Khaz'goroth. Deathwing had been guarding it for centuries. When Huln got a hold of it, he banished Father away from the Lair forever.” He paused for a long time. “Afterward, when they were clearing the rest of the caverns, they found a clutch of eggs.”

“The ones in stasis.”

Like the ones Deathwing had given Sabellian to guard, he realized slowly. It hadn't occurred to him before the similarities in such tales.

Ebonhorn nodded. “Just another piece of his treasure,” he said. “Huln knew that if we hatched, we'd end up like Deathwing. And if the Hammer had the power to banish the Aspect...” He shrugged. “He thought if might banish the darkness. The Hammer holds the power of the earth, and Black Dragons are of the earth. I suppose it made sense.”

Ebonhorn went silent.

“And?” Sabellian pressed.

“It worked,” Ebonhorn said. “But all of my siblings...” His ears pinned back along his head. “I was the only one to survive.”

And lingering, small piece of hope he'd had – small, small, but still there, damn him – curled up and became dust in his throat.

Just another reminder he and his children were stuck, cursed.

“It is a closely guarded secret among the tauren – truly a secret between the descendants of Huln and I.” He straightened and dropped his hands from the ledge. “It offers no help to you. Or anyone. It's why I didn't tell you before.”

Sabellian looked down at Wrathion. “The boy told you about my family's plight, then.”

“Yes.” The tauren looked at him. “I wish the Hammer could help. But -”

“Yes, yes. Another dead end. The other artifact was the same.”

“I hope you trust me a little bit more,” Ebonhorn said after another hush between them.

Sabellian smiled wryly, though it didn't quite meet his eyes. “You said I'm paranoid. That means I don't trust easily.” He glanced back at Vaxian and Pyria. “But you've helped my children, and you shared a secret with me, even if you're just here because some earth god told you to be. A little trust, perhaps. A little more.”

Ebonhorn nodded. He put his skull cap back on. The beads along the ceremonial feathers rattled.

“I'll be communing with Azeroth this evening,” Ebonhorn rumbled. “You are welcome to join me.”

Sabellian laughed.

“Azeroth can offer me nothing,” he said. “I'm prone enough down here, and she's only a conduit for corruption for me.”

Ebonhorn frowned.

“Wrathion will be joining me.”

“Of course he will. He's been following you around like a starving dog.”

Ebonhorn shrugged. “He seems starved for learning.”

“If you knew what he was like, you wouldn't be so kind to him.” Sabellian moved away from the ledge and took up a space between Pyria and Vaxian. “But it's something he should admit to. I tire of telling it again and again. It's his sin to confess.”

Ebonhorn studied him.

“I'd asked why you were traveling together because I sensed your mutual... mmm... animosity,” he said. “He didn't say much. I will ask again.” He made his way to the exit. “I'll call upon you again before – if you change your mind.”

“I won't.”

Ebonhorn looked back at him one last time. In the dim light, he looked like any other tauren: hulking, fluffy, sharp of eye and with a quieter strength though the sweep of the muscles might suggest brute force instead. But staring at him, Sabellian saw the slope of his chin, the keenness of his gaze, the way he held himself, and saw Onyxia, Nefarian, his mother and father and even him there.

“No matter what you feel for me – hatred or indifference or whatever lingers – I'm glad I'm finally able to meet a living sibling,” Ebonhorn said. “And if that is all Azeroth wanted me to come here for – I will go home content, knowing I have even a little family off of the mountain like me.”

He turned and silently left, leaving Sabellian alone with the two sleeping dragons.

 

* * *

 

 

They ate together that night: all of them there on the lowest platform, some as dragons, some as mortals.

Serinar was supposed to bring dinner back, but considering his was predisposed, Furywing and Samia went hunting. Wrathion had caught Sabellian watching them leave with a wary slant to his eyes. Whether it was a discomfort about her being alone with a corrupted dragon or because he wanted none of them to have anything to do with Furywing, Wrathion wasn't sure. He'd recognized the dragon from one of the Trial visions. She'd been one of the dragons who had left with that broodmother, though when they'd left in the vision, she'd lingered behind to try to explain herself to him, though he'd ended up angrily shooing her away.

He wondered about Sabellian's anger toward her. Maybe for abandoning him. That seemed the most likely.

Oh well.

Wrathion picked at his piece of basilisk (that he'd cooked, this time) and listened to the conversation around him. Samia and Ebonhorn were speaking about the mountain layout; Seldarria was trying to keep up a conversation with Sabellian, but he kept only responding with one-word answers or outright ignoring her.

Wrathion hadn't spoken very much; he felt invisible, or like a very large and frightening bug everyone was trying their best to ignore.

It was made a little worse because Left was off hiding somewhere. She said it might be best if she was in the shadows, lest a possible threat know she was already there and take her out first to get to him.

He wished Anduin was here. Then he'd at least have someone to talk to.

“Did you kill Serinar, then?”

Wrathion looked up from his meal. Seldarria was looking at him. She was in her dragon form like Sabellian and Furywing, and her pale red eyes were fixed down on him in a lazy sort of way.

“Sorry. What?”

“It really can't be a coincidence Serinar fails to show the same night you appear,” she pointed out. “So did you kill him?”

Seldarria had a voice that sounded like she was always on the verge of a yawn. Wrathion had a hard time taking anything she said seriously. “No, actually. I didn't.”

“That's certainly hard to believe.”

“He didn't kill Serinar, Seldarria,” Sabellian droned.

“I don't choose to believe that,” she said. “And you could be here helping him kill us all.”

“I thought we already had this conversation,” Sabellian said irritably. “He's my prisoner, I am only here for my children, and when I leave, he'll leave with me.”

“And will he be a prisoner forever?” Seldarria turned to look at Sabellian. “Or will you unleash him onto the world again? What's stopping him from coming back here with his mortal assassins and killing us? We know what he did to the others in hiding!”

Sabellian met Wrathion's eyes. Had that not occurred to the elder dragon before?

Honestly, Wrathion himself hadn't done much forward thinking for once in his life. He really just thought that Sabellian might change his mind and kill him after all, and if he didn't, one of his children might; he had to face their “judgment” anyway. Samia herself might do it with all the cold looks she kept giving him.

“He won't come back here,” Sabellian said at last. Curiously he glanced at Ebonhorn before turning back to his basilisk.

“He had better not!” Seldarria said. “Furywing and I have done quite well for ourselves down here and I won't have some child ruin it all for us!”

“Doing well by hiding in the shadows, you mean,” Wrathion said.

“The little monster speaks his mind!” Seldarria cooed. “Yes, hiding in the shadows. It is _quite_ preferable to being dead.”

“Even when you're just some glorified slave?”

Seldarria squinted at him.

“Boy, enough,” Sabellian warned, but Seldarria leaned forward.

“No, please, speak your mind, dear.”

“Don't make Them angry,” Furywing murmured. “Please take about something else.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over them.

Wrathion felt as if he had been struck. Fahrad had said something similar before he'd been killed.

“Nevermind,” the ex-Prince muttered.

The conversation grew strained after that.

Ebonhorn was the first to finish. He rose and nodded to Samia and Furywing.

“Thank you for the food,” he said and gave another bob of his head. Furywing tilted her head at him. “You'll have to excuse me. I have to prepare for -”

“Oh please, oh please, do you have any more food to share?”

The voice was new – and soon a form followed it. A creature scuttled lizard-like into view. An oversized basilisk? But as it came into the light he realized it wasn't four-legged at all: it stood on two legs and walked hunched and nervously.

It wasn't a dragonkin. Or maybe it was, but none Wrathion had ever seen. It was human-like in body, slimmer than Gravel, but with dragon features: claws, a draconic face, a tail, black, dull scales. It wore nothing but a ragged loincloth and some armor on its shoulders. Open sores and cuts littered its body, and he even thought he saw some stitches around some of the joints of its limbs.

“Hello, Kyrak. That depends. Do you have anything of value today?” asked Seldarria.

The creature crept forward.

“What is this?” Sabellian said. He stared at Kyrak with disgust.

Kyrak glanced at him. He eyes widened.

Then he shrieked, loud enough it echoed off of the top of the ceiling.

He jumped back, trembling, his head bobbing up and down.

“Master! I wasn't stealing from – these are only – they asked me to do it!” He pointed at Seldarria and Furywing.

“Oh, Kyrak, you poor, dull thing,” Seldarria tittered. “That isn't Nefarian. That's his brother, Sabellian. You remember the one, don't you? Or maybe not, no one even really seems to...” This was met with a hateful look on Sabellian's part, but Seldarria didn't notice. “Or maybe you were created after he left. Hmmm.”

Kyrak froze. He squinted at Sabellian.

“Are you s-s-sure?” he asked. He trembled a little.

“Very,” Seldarria said.

“This is Kyrak, Father,” Samia said, albeit uncomfortable. “He's one of, uhm... Nefarian made him.”

Understanding dawned on Sabellian's face. “I see.” He wrinkled his nose and looked away to eat his meal again. He muttered something, but Wrathion didn't hear it. Something about toys.

One of Nefarian's infamous experiments? Truly? Wrathion leaned forward in his seat and studied Kyrak. But the new information didn't highlight much to the wretch, except to maybe explain away the stitches and patches of mismatched flesh. He was pretty pathetic looking.

The same dragon who'd made Chromatus and had risen his sister from the dead had made this twitchy thing?

Why on Azeroth would he do that?

“Made me into this,” Kyrak mumbled, startling Wrathion until he realized it was only in response to Seldarria's explanation. The creature gave Sabellian one last wary look before he inched forward again. “Food?”

“What do you have, Kyrak?” Furywing reminded him gently.

Kyrak shuffled ever closer, though he stayed as far away from Sabellian as he could manage.

After a moment's hesitation, he pulled a bag off of his shoulder and emptied it on the ground. Vials, small pouches, a flash of onyx and red bounced onto the stone. All together it looked like a fine assortment of garbage.

Seldarria snatched the onyx piece. It was an amulet of sorts that ended in a chunk of obsidian and ruby. She draped it over one of her horns.

“Vials from Maloriak,” Kyrak said and wrung his hands together. “The pouches hold armor pieces.”

“These will do,” Seldarria said brightly. She reached forward, grabbed the remains of one of the basilisks and tossed it at him.

It was really just the bones and skin, but Kyrak dove in with relish. The sound of cracking bones and slurped marrow soon filled the cage, much to Wrathion's disgust.

“You have a looter?” He raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Oh, not to worry, he's really quite practical,” Seldarria said as she toyed with her new bauble. “There's so much left over in Blackwing Descent that adventurers haven't picked through, and no one dares go down there anyway these days, not even us! Can you imagine? That place is surely haunted. Anyway Kyrak knows the place so well. He brings things for food.”

Wrathion stared at her.

In that moment, he was struck by the sheer depravity here – the sheer scrapping-by mentality of these dragons. The dragonkin lingered aimlessly, waiting to be ordered by a superior who might never come, and the two dragons loitered around collecting trash.

When he'd first seen them, warnings had gone off in his head as before. New threats. New enemies of Azeroth, just like he'd thought when he'd seen Sabellian and his children. Serinar. Fahrad.

But even corrupted, Wrathion saw just how harmless they were. At least, harmless in how pathetic they were. Here was a sad fringe of the legendary Black Dragonflight: earthwarders, devils, and now lost souls. The dragons he'd killed had at least been threats – except maybe Fahrad – but these...

Once their Flight had moved mountains.

Now they collected garbage.

How many of these little fugitive communities were there? How many dragons hid from him and other hunters? The sudden sureness that there were more out there struck him as deeply as Furywing's fear of invoking the Old Gods had. He'd already been wrong so many times over about being the last black dragon – so much he didn't care anymore.

Azeroth was so large, so sprawling. And if Furywing and Seldarria had managed to mask themselves from him, couldn't others?

What if they found one another? What if the Old Gods commanded them to?

What if the Old Gods had moved on to different avenues for the time being?

He glanced at Furywing. Wrathion had always thought corruption was a constant. You were evil; you wanted to do evil things. Fahrad had just been being dramatic at the end.

But it had always left him wondering. If the Old Gods had seen through Fahrad's eyes that Wrathion was killing their servants, wouldn't they have had Fahrad kill him far earlier?

These dragons were corrupted. But what if they still had a core of themselves deep inside? What they could be?

What the Black Dragonflight should be again?

His heart was thumping hard in his chest as he picked aimlessly at the piece of basilisk cooling in his hands. The idea that there might be other dragons out there should have filled him with fear and rage, like when he'd discovered Sabellian.

But they hadn't surfaced. They hadn't killed anyone. There was no sightings, no talk of strange murders, not even disappearing flocks of sheep.

Right now, their corruption was in lull. Surely they were still mean spirited like Sabellian – and himself, he admitted – surely they were spiteful and bitter and angry at the world. But they weren't lashing out, as their corruption might want them to.

But with if, in this time of lull...

What if they could somehow...

He threw the meat into the fire and made his way to Ebonhorn.

“I've just had a wonderful idea.”

Ebonhorn looked at him.

“What is that?”

Here was one such dragon. A dragon like him.

What if there could be more like him? Like them? Ever since Wrathion had learned about the Hammer of Khaz'goroth and Ebonhorn's own lack of corruption, the whelp had felt so much less alone in the world. A dragon like him. A dragon who understood.

Titans, what if there could be _more_?

When he'd hatched, he'd known with certainty, with every bone in his body, he had to save Azeroth. He had his mortals to aid him, but sometimes their efforts never seemed enough. They weren't like _him_. Even Anduin Wrynn, who understood him maybe more than anyone, wasn't like him. And when he'd hatched, he knew he had to save Azeroth by getting rid of the tormentors who had once been her guardians. Only then could she be free.

But now... everything was different. Everything was changed. Ebonhorn, Sabellian, Samia... now there were opportunities he hadn't had before. Oh, sure, he loathed Sabellian and Samia, but their presence gave him opportunities to help Azeroth in a different way. He'd failed her by not eliminating the rest of his kind from her, but maybe he'd failed for a reason.

_Maybe my failures actually mean something._

“It's a surprise,” Wrathion said with a grin.

“Oh. Then what was the point of telling me in the first place?”

“To get you interested. Now, can we go do your shamanistic ritual now? Before I utterly change my mind about all this.”

Ebonhorn blinked slowly. “Alright,” he said with an air of suspicion. He rose and nodded to the side. No one paid them much attention as they left. Except Sabellian. His eyes followed them. Wrathion got the distinct impression that he didn't like them being alone together.

Well, too bad.

As they left Wrathion caught Samia watching her father. Though not him, he saw: an amulet he hadn't noticed the dragon wearing before. It looked like a crane. Samia's eyes were fixed on it. At least she had good taste. It was a nice necklace.

He and Ebonhorn made their way down one of the tunnels. Ebonhorn had said he'd scouted a good place out beforehand, and Wrathion had trusted him. Only after sending two of his Agents down there anyway, as well as to look around the rest of the tunnels to get a feel for the place. Most of the tunnels led off into various chambers, while others led into different parts of Blackrock all together, like the one they'd come from. One of the paths even seemed to go to Nefarian's old lair; it was probably how Kyrak got to and fro.

“I'd like to ask you something,” Ebonhorn said.

“If you'd like.” He stepped over a pile of sharp rock. The path Ebonhorn had chosen was smaller than some of the others, but more lush. Moss, green in some places and red in others, grew like a carpet on the floor and on some sides of the wall. It undulated back and forth, first on the western wall, then on the eastern wall, sometimes on both. It gave the effect of being in a tide. From some of the moss grew subterranean flowers, thick of petal and almost neon in color. Some gave off a low glow, but most of all the mushrooms he spotted did.

“I knew that something happened between you and Sabellian. It wasn't my business, so I didn't ask. But every dragon here stares at you like an enemy. Why?”

Wrathion's enthusiasm sank.

“Oh. Well. I may have had some dragons killed.”

Ebonhorn looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“There were threatening Azeroth!” he insisted. “One even mind-controlled dozens of mortals in Gilneas City! I had to protect everyone from them.”

“Hmm. And Sabellian was one of those targets?”

“Yes... though only after I thought I was the last of my – ah, _our_ – kind.”

“I'm sure he didn't take too kindly to that.”

“No,” Wrathion said uncomfortably. “It's the reason I'm stuck here.” Should he add in about the 'killing one of his kids' bit? Maybe not.

“What was he doing, then?”

“What?”

“You said the others you killed were doing threatening things. What was Sabellian doing?”

Existing. “It was more of a... preemptive strike.”

Ebonhorn furrowed his brows.

“No wonder the others stare at you like that,” he said.

Wrathion didn't like that reply. Ebonhorn didn't know anything about him, which was nice, because for once he didn't have his reputation as dragon killer trailing behind him like a bridal train. A reputation he _usually_ liked having, but Ebonhorn didn't stare at him like the others did.

“I did what I had to,” Wrathion insisted. “I was just trying to make Azeroth safer. That isn't so bad, is it?”

Ebonhorn shrugged. He reached out as they walked and trailed his fingers over the moss.

“Maybe it wasn't at first,” he rumbled. “But it sounds to me like you tried to take the future of an entire Flight into your hands.”

By killing them all. Wrathion sniffed. He couldn't deny that, but how could he ever explain to Ebonhorn the duty he'd felt? The duty he'd felt to purify? No one understood that. Not even a dragon like him.

“Someone has to,” he said.

Ebonhorn hummed. “I don't think so,” he said thoughtfully. “The Flight is split into so many scattered pieces, now. I don't think we have a future at all to even choose.”

It said it like a fact, emotionless. Wrathion stared at him.

“Maybe there is,” Wrathion said coyly.

“Maybe there is,” Ebonhorn said. “Maybe Azeroth wants there to be, for us all to be here together.”

That made Wrathion giddy with excitement. “ _My_ idea might help.”

“Not sharing that yet?”

“Not until we get to where we're going. Where _are_ we going?”

“We're nearly there,” Ebonhorn said.

Within minutes they made a turn and found themselves in a small enclave.

And it was beautiful.

The moss here grew nearly everywhere, swallowing up the black rock and magma, though some of it reached out like claw marks through the green. So did the flowers, the mushrooms – the place seemed to glow from within, as if it stood on a light source from below, and filtered it through the vegetation. It smell of fresh soil and oil earth, of grass and wet fungus. He relaxed as he entered the place.

Here he felt home.

“I'll have to set up some things,” Ebonhorn said. He looked at Wrathion. “Are you ready for this, boy?”

“Of course I am.” How could he not be? Soon he would be communing with Azeroth herself, something he'd never been able to do himself. She'd always just given him visions and that was all.

Soon... he might have the answer to all their problems.

 

 

 


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience! I wanted to take the time to really, truly express my gratitude for everyone's continued support. It means the world to me whenever I get a new bookmark or comment. To know my hard work is letting you guys enjoy a story is absolutely fulfilling, and I can't thank you all enough for taking the time to leave such nice words. Thank you!
> 
> I'm also announcing that WoS is now going on an Official Update Schedule.............. it'll be updating every first of the month, with the next update on November 1st.

  


* * *

 

 

“Are you ready?”

The cavern smelled of herbs, smoke, and wet soil.

Ebonhorn had set up many offerings around the space: oils, flowers, and bushels of herbs lay in bowls and bundles around the space: on the ground, on the natural shelving, on the little crevices in the walls.

“Are all of these… necessary?”

Ebonhorn fixed a flower in one of the bowls.

“No,” he said. “It’s traditional to, though.” He backed up and cast a long look around the cavern. “But I think tradition errs on the side of caution. Something we need, here.”

Wrathion wrinkled his nose.

“But you need reagents every time… though not all of them?”

Ebonhorn glanced at him. “No,” he said again. “But they help immensely. It’s difficult to contact Azeroth to begin with. Every little thing helps.”

Wrathion hummed softly. Even if they were earth dragons? He could understand mortal shamans needing such reagents, but -

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. For once he trusted another dragon on something. Ebonhorn knew what he was doing.

“Are you ready?” The tauren looked at him expectantly, the skull over his face casting shadows along his muzzle and paint. 

“Yes,” Wrathion said, his heart fluttering. “Of course.”

Ebonhorn nodded and turned to position himself in front of the large, natural column of rock in the center of the cavern. It was covered in cave-moss and flowers which glowed dimly in the dark. In the silence, he heard water trickling somewhere from beyond the walls. 

The tauren nodded at him to come closer.

Wrathion joined him. Prickles of excitement popped in his palms. The cavern held a stillness that felt more natural than it did foreboding. Like the silence high in the mountains or in an empty clearing. If only there weren’t in such a cursed place - then Wrathion may be able to enjoy it more. 

“Have you ever done anything like this before?”

“No,” Wrathion admitted. “Nothing like this.” He frowned and added: “But I have felt through the earth before. You know. The lay of the land. And I’ve moved things around. Of course.”

Ebonhorn withheld a grunt. He closed his eyes and rose his hands straight in front of him.

“It’s a start,” he said. “You’re young. Draw upon the powers you used, then. The one deep in your chest.”

Wrathion closed his eyes. The feeling in his chest. A core of power. When he didn’t focus on it, it felt like a dull burning like his flame. But when he reached for it, it jumped up and sparked. Energy thrummed into his touch and spread into his blood.

The earth felt like a map underneath him in the next breath. The landscape spread before his mind’s eye. He felt the recesses, the lava pits, the hallways of tone, the caverns, even the top of the mountain.

He breathed in deep, refreshed at the contact.

“Now seek out the core of her,” Ebonhorn said. His voice was far away, a sound beyond a veil. “Go deep and deeper. Follow the trail of energy. It should feel stronger with the smell of the incense.”

Deep and deeper? Wrathion reached the tendrils of his consciousness deep - past the main cavern, past the layers of rock and sediment, past any signs of life, down into a world of still earth unmoved for millennia. 

He’d never explored this deep before - for obvious reasons. But despite the stillness, it wasn’t eerie. Instead it was calming in a base sort of way. His soul and mind drifted in the silence.

But Azeroth - where? He reached out in all directions and felt nothing but more stillness. He tried to push away his growing frustration.

Wrathion focused. Maybe he should try to send his intent out, and she would respond.

_ Protect. Purpose _ . 

_ I’m here to help you. _

_ Let me help. _

He repeated the mantra with each heartbeat. 

It didn’t take long for something - someone - to respond.

A pulse of light appeared in his mind’s eye. Light, and feeling. It was like a song, but unlike one he’d ever heard before. Even so it was beautiful, and something deep inside of him lifted.

Purpose.

He followed where the pulse came from, and continued to come from. Deeper, deeper, deeper...

Wrathion opened his eyes.

Gone was the cavern, and gone was Ebonhorn as well.

He found himself in a tunnel of sorts. It wasn’t so different from the ones in Blackrock, except something about it felt… ancient. Maybe it was because everything was so large. The tunnel was massive enough for Deathwing himself to comfortably walk through. He felt like an ant among reeds! Prehistoric, he thought. No, ancient wasn’t quite the right word. Ancient might descript Titan artifacts or High Elven structures. Something about this… this was before even all of that existed.

Wrathion stood still. Should he walk forward? Wait for something to come to him? 

Feel her out, Ebonhorn had said. Seek her. He’d done that before, but did he also mean to do so now?

He walked. His footsteps made no sound. The pulsing had stopped, but he could feel energy coming just around the bend of the massive structure.

He turned around it. Wrathion’s breath caught in his throat.

The chamber was massive. Mirroring the one he’d left behind, the walls were jagged stone, built of hundreds upon hundreds of layers, a striation of colors and years of sediment. But everywhere he looked, the cavern was sectioned differently. There, sandstone and lime; here, obsidian and dried lava. Even the ground lay in swirls of different materials: sand, gravel, soil. It was like a section of each piece of the world had been sliced and placed to fit in a piece of the cavern. It felt like standing in a color wheel, though each color was another landscape.

In the center was not a column of rock. 

It was pure, pulsing light.

The purest light possible.

It was not white light. It reflected like a gem, as if it was made up of many facets. At first glance it was white, yes - but glancing at it again and again, it looked different. Here was diamond, smooth and flat like ice; there it was bright and gritty like sand. There was patterned green - vines? - and here the ocean and its rippling peaks. But when he caught a glimpse of all of these things, they shifted away at once and became something else. It was ever-changing, nebulous as an unwritten spell. It was light, an untouchable thing, and it was not; he felt like he could reach out and touch it, and feel at once all the patterns and textures and colors he’d seen and had not seen.

It? No - she.

The spirit of Azeroth. At last.

He stumbled to a kneel. 

_ Azeroth. _

What... what was the feeling that overcame him?

Relief, awe, fear, longing, joy? 

All?

_ None _ ? Something else? 

His head swam, and he looked at her, or the vision of her, unfallen tears glassing his eyes.

The world he’d pledged his life to protect… his entire meaning for life… here, before him.

She was right here.

“I… I am… humbled to be in your presence,” Wrathion breathed. “I have dreamed of this for so long.”

The light shimmered before him. A voice echoed from it - but he couldn't understand what it was saying, or if it was saying anything at all. But all the same the voice was beautiful, the song that held the pulse from before. It was like the sound of rainfall, the crash of waves, the wind howling through snowy peaks. Every wonder of the world was her voice - and it made his conviction soar.

The light moved closer to him. Power rolled off of her, so immense and overwhelming he almost couldn’t breathe. He had never felt such raw energy before. But before he could be truly overwhelmed the light shone brighter, and touched him. A warm feeling of welcoming and joy spread over him, and he gasped. 

It was as if she had pulled her arms around him and held him close. The tears that had shone on his eyes fell freely now, and all at once the crash of all his suffering and failings of the past months smashed into him. 

He doubled over and sobbed. It was too much. All he had suffered, and now here she was, the purpose for his life, the purpose for his being, before him, welcoming him despite it all.

She did not move away, but a feeling of guilt and sorrow pervaded him, soft but convicted. 

“All I’ve done, I’ve done for you,” he said. “I’m sorry. I failed. I should have wiped them all out. I promised you that my family wouldn’t befoul you anymore. And I failed.”

Warmth touched his chest, and he looked up, his tears beginning to stop as quickly as they had come. A tendril of her light moved away from where it had touched him, almost a little warily, unsure, but nothing could mistake the aura of good radiating off of her. 

_ It’s okay _ , she seemed to say.  _ It’s okay. _

“But I … I know now I’ve made a mistake,” he continued. “But that mistake led me here. To you. To help you.”

Fervor rose in his voice now, replacing his grief and suffering. A fervor fueled by his righteousness not only to redeem himself, but to redeem himself for her. 

“I can help you more if I have others like me,” he insisted. “Maybe it was good I failed you, because now I can do something so much greater. Mortals… they don’t understand how it feels. Not like I do. Not like… like others like me would.” He rose to his feet. “Azeroth. I’ve come before you to ask your help. If you can show me where the others who fled from me hide, I can purify them. You’ll be warded tenfold. It just won’t be Ebonhorn and I.”

All his failures had led to this. He was sure of it. He had failed to kill Sabellian and his children, because he wasn’t supposed to. He’d failed to wipe the world of his other corrupted kin, because he wasn’t supposed to. It had always been a dim dream to think of what the Black Dragonflight could be again, but Ebonhorn had given him an actual option.

“The Hammer of Khaz’goroth can purify them, as it did Ebonhorn,” he went on. It may kill some, but others might live. “And then the Black Dragonflight can be reborn!” 

No one understood like he did, what he’d had to do to his own family. They didn’t  _ understand _ . He had to do it. It was his  _ duty _ to protect Azeroth, and his first duty was to slaughter those who would harm her, who would use her earth and fire and lava to turn it against her, even if they were his own kin. Perhaps he had been too zealous with Sabellian, worlds away. He knew he’d made that mistake, and now he had paid for it with his freedom, for his suffering. He knew. Despite all of the times he’d denied it for the sake of his own pride, he knew.

And he’d learned.

“Please,” he insisted. “Let me help you more than I have been.”

A hum emanated from her, low and gentle and unsure. Her surface shimmered. For the barest of moments her form was a dragon’s head, looking down at him with sorrow and understanding. In the next breath she was gone.

Panic. Anger. Wrathion stood up straight. What had he said wrong? What had -

Color exploded around him - and when he opened his eyes, he was somewhere else.

Before him stood a man, tall, with great, sloping shoulders and armor that accentuated the strength of his body: black and rich red brown, three inches deep and studded with spikes and rivulets that resembled mountain ranges and peaks.

They were standing on a cliff. The overlook enjoyed a vastness of scenery: to the west lay a forest in bloom; before them, an outcrop of rocky plateau that led into a beach to the east. The sun was high and bright, and set the capes of the waves flickering gold.

The man’s back was to him, but nearby were two others. One was a woman wearing silver chainmail, while the other was a Vrykul in summer leathers.

“Are you sure about this?” the woman said. “I’m positive we can move some Wings from the southern post -”

The man waved a hand. “It’s nothing I haven’t done before. Much greater threats have fallen over my claws.”

The man turned, and Wrathion froze.

Deathwing?

But - no scowl. No scarred face. His eyes were wide and mirthful and warm gold; his hair was long and wavy, like his own, slicked back with a confident flourish. The facial features were the same, but everything else was near the opposite. Even his skin had a dark and lively glow to it, unlike the Deathwing Wrathion knew, who was pallid and unnatural looking.

This wasn’t Deathwing at all. This was Neltharion! Azeroth was showing him a vision almost ten-thousand years old.

“Kera, go and find the new positions of the giants,” Neltharion said. “I’ll take care of these.”

The vrykul looked down at the mountains. Wrathion followed his gaze.

What he had thought to be ridges in the mountains - they were moving. Slowly, but they were moving. Stone giants? But enormous, bigger than Wrathion thought possible. Some even had forests growing on their back as they ambled their way south.

“You can’t take all of those, my Liege,” Kera pressed. “Let me -”

“There’s not enough time to get the Wings you want here,” Neltharion said in a pleasant voice. He stretched his arms above his head. “And our Vrykul friend here would be worse for the wear if we waited.”

The vrykul grunted. “I care not how it gets done, only that it gets done. I’d like a village to return to.”

Neltharion smiled and slapped the Vrykul good-naturedly on the shoulder.

“Then no more talking. Kera, go. I will handle these.”

The view shimmered and broke apart like water droplets spinning away from oil. They recombined - and Wrathion stood on a platform overlooking a tundra. Every glance showed more and more snow, black and shimmery in the daylight.

“Really abysmal here.”

Neltharion stood at the edge of the balcony. Beside him stood a woman with red armor and furs.

Alexstrasza. The regular curl of anger lingering in his chest. Even after she had healed him in Lion’s Landing, he doubted his animosity toward Reds would ever truly heal.

“I don’t recall you complaining about the weather during our youth,” Alexstrasza said, a smile in her voice. She didn’t look younger, but instead… lighter, somehow, with how she held herself, how her eyes lit her face.

“Yes, when I was a dim-witted proto-drake,” he scoffed. “I really only complained about not enough enemies to fight, if I remember correctly.” He paused. “And I don’t think it was this cold back then.”

Alexstrasza smiled.

“Something you seem to still struggle with, I’ve heard.”

Neltharion raised an eyebrow at her. 

“And where did you hear this?”

“Most of your lieutenants,” she said. “I've heard that rose the Basin dam by yourself.”

“An easy thing!” Neltharion laughed. “I’ve lifted mountains before.”

The Red pursed her lips. “We’re leaders of our Flight, Neltharion. Not mavericks on our own.”

Neltharion’s mirth left his face. He pulled away from the balustrade and frowned.

“If I can achieve something by myself, I’ll do it by myself. Better use of resources and time. Why ask for help amongst my kin when I can do it for them?”

“I see how hard it is on you.” Neltharion’s eyes hardened. “You slept for nearly half a month after taking down the Giants’ uprising.” Alexstrasza placed a hand on his arm. “It doesn’t make you weak to ask for help. Our charges aren’t meant for us alone.”

Neltharion softened. “I’m the Earthwarder, Alex,” he said. “The Earthwarder. My Flight doesn’t hold the massive amount of power I do. It’s my responsibility. And if I can alleviate the burden and weight of the world from their shoulders, I’ll do so!”

Alexstrasza studied him, then gave a slow nod and pulled away. It seemed like they had had conversations like this one before, and  the result was always the same.

“Just try to ask your kin for aid when you need it,” she said. “It shouldn’t be a weight you carry all on your own shoulders, brother. It shouldn’t be… a burden.” She grew quiet for a time. “And perhaps they are not as powerful as you are, but that doesn’t mean they cannot do what you can. Remember… we only defeated Galakrond when we were together.”

Neltharion looked out at the tundra. The snow was picking up. The Aspect’s eyes felt far away; something was on his mind but nothing he wanted to share.

A crushing weight fell on Wrathion’s shoulders.

He gasped and stumbled forward. It was suffocating all-consuming.

It was familiar.

And then it was gone, and so was the tundra.

Wrathion blinked rapidly. He caught his breath. He had no time to think before a massive dragon lumbered past.

Now he was in a valley. Neltharion was taking long, purposeful strides toward a group of dragons. Wrathion watched him. His true form was even more bizarre to see than his human form had been. The lack of plates, the ever-burning skin, the smolder of hate in his eyes, the metal jaw - all of it, gone. This dragon was still massive, but his power seemed to emanate from a different place. It felt like it radiated from below his feet, each step sending a wave of raw energy outward, so his aura was ever-shifting and growing and moving. 

The group of dragons were a group of his own kind. Black dragons, and more than Wrathion had  ever seen gathered in one place. It must have been two dozen of all different ages watching Neltharion arrive with hopeful and awestruck looks. Wrathion wasn’t sure what feeling overcame him as he stared at them, but couldn’t help but compare the lively group to Seldarria picking at garbage from Kyrak’s bag.

“Earthwarder,” called one of the dragons, one of the largest, with double horns and fins on the side of her jaw. “We’re glad you were able to come so quickly.”

Neltharion smiled. The gathering of dragons watched him with enraptured looks - like they weren’t looking at their leader, but at a god.

“Has the situation improved?” Neltharion’s voice didn’t feel as good-natured. It sounded strained, or tired.

“Some tried to help mend it, but we decided to wait for your expertise.” The dragon turned and hurried through the throng, which parted before Neltharion like minnows making way for a shark.

“Of course,” Neltharion said as he followed, but there was a new hardness in his eyes, a sort of deep irritation that made an uneasy feeling settle in Wrathion’s gut.

He wondered how much time had passed. Enough for Neltharion to grow wearier about doing things, apparently. Wrathion frowned, wondering why the others hadn’t fixed whatever problem it was. Maybe it really was dire and out of their talons. But there were almost twelve fully grown dragons here. They couldn’t do it by themselves with their own powers?

The area around Neltharion grew hazy until he could only see the Aspect. Wrathion thought he may be waking, but nothing happened. Was Azeroth trying to tell him something?

_ Of course they wait for me _ , a voice echoed around him. Neltharion’s voice.  _ And of course you have to have yet another problem for me to fix.  _ The bitterness was palpable, a poison of the air. He wasn’t talking to himself. He was talking to Azeroth, he realized. In response he felt her pang of guilt at Neltharion’s comment.

Wrathion’s frown deepened. Something had changed from one vision to the next. But…

“He made them too reliant on him,” he realized with a start. Of course! If Neltharion had taken on the biggest bulk of responsibility since the beginning the rest of the Flight must have come to accept it as a normalcy. No wonder they looked at him like that: he may have well have been their god if he fixed all their problems with his Titan-given powers.

Powers they also had… he shook his head, frowning. Did they just not use them? No, that didn’t seem right. Maybe they used them for warfare, or for smaller things, or only when Neltharion ordered them to.

The vision flickered again. It came into focus a heartbeat later. Neltharion stood next to the dragon from before and together they looked down into a chasm in the earth. It was deep and smooth, as if someone had cut out a slice and lifted it from the ground.

“It just opened up out of nowhere,” the dragon said. “We thought it might have been -”

“Yes, yes. Let’s close it up before the rest of the plateau unbalances itself.”

The dragon gave an uneasy glance across the chasm. On the side stood three other dragons standing guard at the edge. Behind them… eggs. The chasm had come close to swallowing them all.

Neltharion strode forward to the edge of the plateau. He outstretched a paw. His expression grew intent - almost angry.

Slowly, he pulled his paw upward. The earth rumbled. Deep below, the ground began to rise.

Neltharion growled. Something like impatience - almost contempt - hazed his eyes.

He jerked his claw up - and, like a puppeteer pulling on its marionette’s strings, yanked the earth up in an unnatural, jerking motion. The earth shuddered as it was ripped upward and out of the hole. The plateau began to quake angrily.

The earth sailed past the edge of the chasm, filling it but then going farther. Again the ground rumbled. Wrathion could just see around the edge of it, where the dragons keeping guard over the eggs were crying out in alarm as the new friction had cracks shattering on their end, threatening another collapse.

The new peak Neltharion had made suddenly stopped its excessive growth: the top crushed into itself as if it had hit an invisible barrier, then began to sink down, slowly, gently, until it was flush with the edge of what had once been the hole.

Neltharion frowned, and he and Wrathion looked over at the female dragon, whose paw was splayed out. She’d stopped it.

The Aspect frowned at her, then back at the plateau, where he’d almost made a disaster, with a perplexed, somewhat annoyed look.

“Perhaps I’m out of practice with smaller jobs,” he said dismissively. “I went a little overboard, didn’t I? I’m very sorry. Well done, Sintharia.”

Wrathion gawked. Sintharia? Broodmother of the Black Dragonflight? The only consort of Neltharion to survive Deathwing? Sabellian’s mother?

He had no time to think on it. The vision  changed again, and once more he was at what he could only guess was Wyrmrest Temple. It wasn’t snowing this time. The air was cold but the sun high, casting bright glints on the sheets of ice on the tundra. Neltharion sat next to a giant blue dragon, one dusted with white fur and crystal horns. Jewels radiating arcane energy dangled from its ears and necklaces. Malygos, the Spellweaver.

Malygos sighed. “Our work is never done,” he said. “The Vrykul coming from the North are using some strange magic, for instance. Awful beasts. They tend to warp even the most pure of spells.”

Neltharion said nothing. His eyes were dark and glassy.

Malygos looked at him. One of his ears twitched.

“You’ve been distant of late, old friend.”

The Earthwarder rumbled. He blinked once and looked at Malygos.

“You deal with mortals playing with incantations and curses,” he said. “The entire weight of this world sits on my shoulders. I have no time to stop and take and be present.” Neltharion huffed smoked. “Every day she suffers another trauma or multiple. An earthquake, stone aberrations, a disease of the mountains. I must be everywhere at once.”

The bitterness in his voice was as strong as bile, and for that brief moment Wrathion saw the figure in the Blade’s Edge vision, the seething anger centuries,  _ thousands _ years forged. 

Malygos said nothing; his face revealed even less. Had Neltharion spoke of this before? Or was he used to his friend’s outburst? How much time had passed since the last vision? Enough that a constant strain of irritation now lingered in Neltharion’s eyes, taking the place of his mirth and confidence. 

“If you’re unhappy with your station,” Malygos said, “I am sure that another can take your place.”

“Do you think that any other can do what I can?” Neltharion slapped his tail on the ground. The stone cracked. “Azeroth would crumble in a day.”

And  there was the bitterness again, deep and terrible, and Wrathion suppressed a shudder.

“And one did even try to challenge me to it,” he continued with a scoff. “A duel against  _ me _ for leadership. A little whip of a dragon.”

Malygos’s ears pricked. “I didn’t hear of this.”

Neltharion went quiet. It seemed he hadn’t meant to share it, but his rant had spilled too much over his mouth without thought.

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied darkly. “Her skills with the earth were commendable. But they didn’t come up to par with mine.”

He didn’t need to say what they both knew. She’d been killed in the duel. Wrathion didn’t even know there were things like that in place. A duel for Aspect? Such a thing could be challenged? He knew the Blues had a ceremony to do with the moons - it was how they’d chosen Kalec as Aspect - but it’d never occurred to him to think other Flights had similar things. No doubt it was all kept closely guarded. And the Black Dragonflight’s method had probably been lost to time after Neltharion had become Deathwing and had doomed them all. Lost to time like all the rest of their culture before the Old Gods. 

Malygos heaved a sigh. “You could do to be less confident.”

Confident? Egotistical was the word that came to mind. 

Neltharion didn’t reply. He stared out at the horizon, and in his eyes grew resentment.

“I will never stop being Aspect,” he said. “The others will never be strong enough for it.”

Disgust. Disgust for his own kind. The Flight that he’d told Alexstrasza he’d do anything to lift their burdens. Now… now he didn’t even believe in them?

He thought of the Twilight Dragonflight. The dragons had been made and warped and twisted and remade over and over again, each clutch better, stronger, more unnatural than the last. Better dragons to him. Azeroth was showing him the birth of such a mind. 

Why?

What did this have to do with his request?

At once the world pitched into darkness.

“What do you want from me?” he called out, but his voice was dim and pitched, like he was speaking from the bottom of a cavern. 

He received no reply save for two lights flickering into existence before him: one red and one white. The red blazed like an ember, while the white light was pure shining and had the consistency of smoke. Like a snake it grew close and then pulled away from the red. Watching them, it felt like the Red should have been moving with it, and when it did move, it jerked one way or another, impatient, angry to be touched.

Another light appeared, and slunked up like a predator. It was purple, but not a royal purple, not beautiful: it was the color of a bruise, of rot. 

It snaked close and closer, tendril-like in movement. Carefully it avoided the white light as it made its way toward the Red.

It touched the large light. A small touch, nothing more. The Red rippled.

The tendril touched it again for longer. This time the Red light hesitated. Then it moved, however small, with the tendril - and away from the white light.

This continued, each interaction growing longer and longer until the Red was nearly in harmony with the purple one’s movements. When the purple moved away, the Red followed. And like a lost dog, the white light tried to get the Red’s attention. But the Red shrugged it off.

Then, all at once, the tendril coiled around the Red and squeezed it.

Squeezed harder and harder. Wrathion himself felt himself short of breath.

The white light went reeling backward, any remaining contact broken between the Red.

He looked at the Red. It was utterly encased in the tendril. They didn’t dance together anymore. Once, Wrathion had seen one of the jungle pythons catch a hare and suffocate the life from it.

This was the same.

He glanced at  the white light with a pit in his stomach. The light bounced and fluttered around now, alone and afraid, and at the very edge of the blackness before him curled new purple lights, aching closer toward it.

“This is you,” he whispered aloud breathlessly. “This is what you felt when Father…” Maybe even how she saw it. Did she see as mortals did? Did she feel energy? 

“This is why I need to do this!” he insisted. “Let me help you.”

How could he explain how every part of him felt alive with the need to carry this out? It was why he was here. It was his purpose. Why he had done what he had done - and why he needed to do what he needed to do.

“I can make you more protectors,” he insisted, reaching toward the white light. “I won’t be like him. I won’t succumb. Show me where the others are, and with the Hammer, I’ll make you shielded - from everything.”

The light whisked out of reach and went out, leaving him in darkness. He growled in frustration. Isn’t that what she wanted? Isn’t that why she had shown him Neltharion’s descent? He understood - he couldn’t protect her alone. He thought he’d had to, being the last uncorrupted black dragon. He’d thought he’d had to use mortals, to manipulate them into how he needed them, but for the good of Azeroth. Neltharion had taken the burden on himself and had come to grow bitter with the weight.

Which was why he needed to know where others were! Mortals didn’t understand. They weren’t like him. But dragons - dragons like him! - could. Ebonhorn showed him a new option. There could be more like him. Like him,  _ truly _ . Not like Sabellian and his brood, who were uncorrupted only on a timed basis. Uncorrupted  _ off _ of Azeroth. 

“Isn’t that what you want?” he demanded, clenching his fists. “What do you want me to do? Continue killing them? I’ll gladly -”

The white light snapped to life again. It swept toward him and then to the side. He turned to follow her, and froze. In the distance glowered a green light. Around it curled ribbons like blood and above, lights popped in green streaks like meteors.

“The Legion?” He frowned. “I know! I’m preparing for them  _ too _ , of course. But -”

The light whisked back to him and tugged him closer to the sphere. Then it let go and zipped over to the side. Another light appeared, black with white striations. Around it danced lights that were spiked, antler like.

“I don’t understand -”

The white light zoomed away yet again.

Again, it created another light. But it was only the ribbon, no sphere. It was earthy-black and had the texture of slate. The white light hesitated nearby.

Slowly, it bounced forward and a fuzzier light appeared between the earthy ribbon. It was indistinct, so much so that he couldn’t even tell the color or texture of it, unlike his own.

The white light flickered away and hovered nearby, expectant. He stared at it, then at the three spheres.

“Alright. That’s… my sphere?” he guessed, pointing at the Legion. 

It bobbed up and down, as if nodding. 

Wrathion raised an eyebrow and looked at the others.

“What about these?”

She didn’t say or do anything. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“This isn’t really helpful. And anyway I can’t do much about the Legion right now. I’m a prisoner. You did see that, didn’t you?”

She still didn’t do anything. 

Frustration bubbled in his chest.

“The Legion’s my responsibility. Of course I’ll protect you from them in any way I can. But if I can make more like me - with the Hammer -”

He was shoved bodily toward the Legion and away from the other spheres.

“ _ Hey _ !”

He caught his balance, turned, and glared at the white light. It swayed back and forth. Innocently.

She was a lot cheekier than he suspected.

He knew asking her something wouldn’t do much. So Wrathion stood there, arms crossed over his chest, and looked at all the spheres. The Legion one was obvious enough. The others… 

Well, clearly she didn’t want him to do whatever those meant.

“Are those for other dragons?” he asked warily, slowly. He knew she’d shown him those visions for a reason, and yet she’d pushed him away when he’d brought up the Hammer. He knew they meant that he needed help; that he couldn’t take on the whole burden of the Flight’s responsibilities alone. But he was only one amongst two uncorrupted. How was he supposed to  _ not _ be like Neltharion when he had no one else save for Ebonhorn? 

The light gave its curt little nod.

“I don’t understand.” He furrowed his eyebrows. “You just.. want me to focus on the Legion? And some…  _ other _ dragon will do… what  _ I  _ want to do? To help the Flight? Or doom it?”

At once, the three spheres she had made whisked together. They combined - and formed the Red light. Neltharion’s light.

It split up a moment later, back into the three lights. And it recombined. And it split up. Azeroth hummed her beautiful song, but now it was tinged with a sort of worry, desperate for him to understand.

“Yes, yes! I understand this. I do.  _ Really _ .” He waved his hand toward the spheres. “Neltharion tried to do absolutely everything on the Flight’s behalf, and the whole weight of it was on his shoulders. The entire weight of the  _ world _ . And he grew bitter. And resentful. And angry. I saw.” The more he spoke the more it dawned on him why she had really shown him the visions. “You want to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”

Azeroth song.

“You just want me to focus my duties on the Legion. You want someone else to do…  _ this _ . You want me to… to not be overwhelmed. So I don’t turn out like him.”

She sang again, quieter, understanding, and gently pushed forward the last sphere she had made: the indistinct one, hazy except for  the earthen ribbon around it.

_ This one instead _ , she seemed to say. Whoever ‘this one’ was.

Wrathion shook his head. “But there’s only  _ two _ of us. How… who…”

Azeroth’s light waved toward him. A rush of gratitude and fierce protectiveness fell over him. He stood, stunned, and for the first time in his life, he felt understood and  _ thanked _ .

She loved him. She didn’t want him to end up like Neltharion. He remembered the crushing feeling on his shoulders in the vision: the weight of the world. Of her.

She didn’t want to be his burden. She wanted to protect him as he wanted to protect her. In that moment he was one with her, understanding as she did, and in that moment he felt the pulse of her most desperate thoughts.

_ Trust me. Trust me. _

And then, all at once, fast as blinking, he was back in the cavern.

Wrathion lurched back and fell on his rear. 

Ebonhorn sat up next to him. His hands were resting on his knees, and he looked at Wrathion, ears pricked.

“I was worried you’d need help waking,” he said. “Did you -”

“I spoke to her!” Wrathion sprang to his feet and a spit of fire shot from his mouth as he forgot himself in his excitement. “It wasn’t just some terrible visions… Well, some parts were, but we spoke! Azeroth spoke to me!” He paused, hands clenched in fists and raised victoriously up past his shoulders. “Mmm… spoken is being generous. More like we played charades. A very frustrating game of charades.”

Ebonhorn got to his feet. He brushed himself off. Only then did Wrathion notice all the essences, offerings, and bowls were empty.

“What did she show you?”

Wrathion explained the visions, the spheres, the tendrils that had killed Neltharion and how they were creeping closer to her.

Ebonhorn hurrowed his brows and sat heavily on a boulder. He scratched his jaw.

“It’s always a guessing game when you speak to her,” he said. “Interpretation is a practiced art for a Spiritwalker.” He looked at Wrathion. “What do you think it means?”

Wrathion crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his chin. He needed to shave. 

His visions about the Legion had been obvious and literal. But these…

“Well,” he said, pulling himself up, “I think Neltharion’s visions show how he buckled under so much pressure, of course. He grew bitter. He didn’t use the real strength of his Flight to his advantage. I’m sure if he had, they would have been unstoppable.”

Ebonhorn nodded slowly. “Yes. I thought the same.” He smiled in a coy sort of way. “She always shows visions of unity and compassion. Of coming together.”

Wrathion brightened a little. Like how he unified his mortal champions against a common foe. The more allies one had, the stronger you were. Even if it meant you had to pit some against the other.

Sometimes.

Ebonhorn eyed him. “She must have been listening when we were talking in the tunnel.”

Wrathion’s expression soured.

“Yes, alright, maybe,” he said dismissively. “But  _ I  _ was talking about a future for the Flight, and  _ you _ said we hardly had one. I had thought she would have liked my idea more than she did, however…”

“Oh. Yes. Your secret idea.”

He’d forgotten: he was going to share it with Ebonhorn after. “I wanted to use the Hammer of Khaz’goroth to purify any other dragons. I know there must be more out there! I’ve already met three down  _ here _ . And Azeroth is immense…” He trailed off as he saw Ebonhorn’s expression. “You don’t like it either.”

He stood again. The tauren drew himself to his full height.

“You can’t use the Hammer like that.”

“Why not?”

“I was in a clutch of almost twenty-five eggs, and I was the only one to survive the cleansing. All of my clutch-mates, all of my siblings, were killed. Don’t you think I entertained the idea of doing the same when I was young?”

“But what does it matter if some die? Some might survive, and then there’ll be more like us -”

“Do you plan to find them all, and line them up one by one, and see who lives and who dies?”

“I don’t know about lining them  _ up _ …”

Ebonhorn frowned at him. “I told you: our Flight’s legacy shouldn’t be in the hands of just one. And Azeroth was showing you the same.”

Wrathion’s temper was rising. But what else was he supposed to do? The Legion - he prepared for them, but he was under Sabellian’s thrall now, and his champions had seen everything he’d done in the visions at the Celestial Court. He needed something else to do. Something else to  _ prove _ . He’d failed so much and -

_ Trust me. Trust me. _

“But they’ll die eventually!” he protested. “And I don’t mean because of  _ me _ ! If more are out there, mortals will find them eventually, and do you really think they’ll let them live after what happened during the Cataclysm? And how do we know the Old Gods don’t have something planned? We don’t! But this gives us even the smallest glint of hope for Azeroth - for us! Maybe the Hammer will destroy them all except one. But that will be one more protector of Azeroth - another dragon like you and me!”

Ebonhorn frowned down at him in silence. “Is this for Azeroth,” he said, “or for you?”

Wrathion wilted. “What?”

“Do you want Azeroth to have a protector, or to have someone else like you? A more worthy dragon, in your eyes? Are those that hold corruption so useless to you you’d rather have them be killed than give them any slim chance that they could take their destiny into their own hands?”

_ My Flight is useless. _

It felt like a kick in the gut. 

He sounded - just like Neltharion. Neltharion, who’d gone on to remake his own Flight and use his own kin like lackeys, dogs of war to be sacrificed for further gain or further chaos.

“I... “ He wilted. “I don’t know.”

Ebonhorn tilted his head. “I understand what you’re thinking. I’ve had ten-thousand years to think about the others. And I know that those with corruption… they don’t have much of a choice in anything. But you and I have seen the desperation here. The Old Gods don’t truly control their every movement. They’re not utter puppets.”

Wrathion had thought the same thing. If they were, they would have been killed on sight. And he remembered Furywing’s words:  _ Don’t make them angry.  _ As if they could be invoked. As if they weren’t always there. Like with Fahrad. 

But how could they make their own destiny with such a curse looming over them? Their whole purpose had been warped. They lived to destroy Azeroth, not protect her. And if they even tried to protect her, he had no doubt - no doubt in the slightest - that would invoke Them, and they’d turn on Wrathion and the World Soul in an instant.

It was a circle, a snake eating its own tail. No answer. No solution.

And it … it wasn’t -

“It’s not up to me,” he said. “Is it?”

Ebonhorn studied him. Slowly, he put a hand, large as Wrathion’s head, on his shoulder. “No.”

No one had ever touched him like that: comforting, familial. Wrathion stared at him, a little dizzy. One of his own kind doing that. 

He was suddenly aware he stood at another crossroad. Go one way, and let his own ambitions trump what Azeroth wanted. He would take the Hammer and purify who he could. In the end, Azeroth would be safer.

Go the other way, and he’d follow Azeroth’s guidance. Let him focus on the Legion and all the plans, all the manipulation and strength he needed, and let all other responsibility roll off his shoulders. He wouldn’t be like Father.

_ Trust me. _

He decided he would.

“But she wanted someone else to take over what I proposed  to her. About our future. Maybe  _ not _ purifying with the Hammer, don’t get all upset, but - somehow… somehow else! Or, I don’t know.  _ Unify _ . You said that. Sounds much better that purify… even if gathering a bunch of corrupted dragons all in one space is sure to invoke the Old Gods.” He was talking so quickly even he didn’t know what he was saying. “It must be one of the dragons here. But none of them will listen to me. None of them even care about her. Not like I -  _ we _ do. She didn’t give me any clues… but surely you must be one of the spheres she showed me?” The black and white one - the one with the antler-like ribbon. Of course.

Ebonhorn blinked slowly at him. “Slow down, boy. I agree, she sent me here to find all of you. But my sphere gave little else?”

He shook his head. “No. Just the black and white, with the antler ribbon.  _ Mine _ was obvious.” Couldn’t she be a little more helpful?

Ebonhorn nodded slowly. “I’ll have to commune with her on my own time, then,” he mused.

“Isn’t that what you were doing with me?”

“No. I was making sure you were alright.”

Wrathion blinked, taken aback. “Oh,” he said awkwardly. “Thank you.”

“What do you want to do about this?”

Wrathion hesitated. He wasn’t used to planning with someone else, save for his Agents. And maybe Anduin once or twice. “I’ll have to think on this. I don’t want the others suspecting anything. And it must be one of them; she refused to show me where others might be. Hmm…”

“What if I’m supposed to do that?”

“What?”

“She wants me to do something. I’m a Spiritwalker. I can feel auras, visions, desires.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I can try to seek them out. It is a shallow duty, but one I am sure can only be the beginning.”

Wrathion blinked at him. Oh. Maybe. 

“Right,” he said, albeit lamely. Well… he wanted to feel useful  _ somehow _ . What was he supposed to do about the Legion down here? 

Ebonhorn eyed him, and, as if sensing his hesitation, said: “And boy… I don’t think our purpose should be as rigid as you may be imagining it. It’s not supposed to be your single thing to do in life. We work together. We help one another with our responsibilities. I think that’s another way.” He smiled. “And it is not worth much, but… it felt good to commune with her with another of my kind. I never thought I’d be able to do that.”

Wrathion paused, then gave a wary smile back.

“Yes. Me, too.”

 

\---

  
  


Pyria looked around without moving her head. She no longer had the dizzy, vague look in her eyes, though she did look confused.

“Pyria?” Sabellian pressed. As gently as he could manage, he put his hand on her arm.

Her eyes fluttered and she looked at him. She smiled, a hint of exhaustion in the curve of her mouth.

“Hey, Dad,” she said. “We still in the mountain? This doesn’t smell like home.”

He nodded and leaned back. “I’m afraid so,” he rumbled. “We’ve been waiting for you and your brother to recover.”

They both looked over at the other cot where Vaxian slept, and slept fitfully. He’d been cold the last time Sabellian had checked his temperature: maybe in the high ninetys. He worried the dragon might have been carrying around the virus that Nasandria had gotten (and had apparently passed to Wrathion after the light torture,) but it was so far past the incubation period. At least he thought it was. How long had he been away from home? It felt like years.

“Oh,” she said. She rubbed the back of her head. Slowly - slowly - she sat up in bed. “It’ll be nice to go back to Blade’s Edge! Did you find the nether-drakes?”

“No.” He’d hardly given them a second though.

“We can’t leave without them.”

“We’ll worry about that later,” he said. “Pyria: how did you find your way here?”

She blinked at him. 

“Oh, well, that was easy. We stayed close when Samia and Vaxian were captured, so we knew they were going to the Vale. We stayed behind for a while… which ended up being pretty good, because we weren’t there when the thing exploded. We saw the smoke, though, and -” She stopped, and shuddered. “Such evil… two of the drakes went ahead and found Serinar with them. I guess they’d escaped in the explosion? Anyway Malfas overheard him talking about taking them to Blackrock to be safe. So we followed.”   
Sabellian nodded once, slowly. Logical. “At least you made the journey safely.”

“The nether-drakes were really worried about me after the explosion. But I kept telling them I wasn’t hearing crazy voices.” She smiled brightly. “And I was safe until those dragonkin knocked me upside the head. I just hope nothing bad happened to the others.”

She glanced at Vaxian again. “He’s going to be okay, though, right?”

Sabellian gave a curt nod. “Yes. Though he’s an infection. Seldarria’s been treating him, though her stores are running low.” He sighed, a dull rumble in his chest. “She said she’s been getting her herbs from Kyrak,” he said. “From Nefarian’s lair.” Saying the words aloud made an old and bitter anger bubble up within him.

He breathed it out. He didn’t have time to linger on things like his brother.

“Oh,” Pyria said. “That doesn’t sound too terrible.”

“Yes, because I never told you much about my brother’s fascinations. It’s best to say it will not be pleasant.”

Pyria tried to sit up, cringed, then lay back down. “I wish I could go,” she said. “I don’t feel very helpful sitting here like a lump.”

“You’re the injured one, Pyria,” he said with a sigh. “You  should just be worrying about how much sleep you’re getting.”

“You’re my dad. You should be worrying about that for me, right?” 

He rumbled. “In theory.”

She laughed, but soon a sigh overtook the sound and she sagged back down in bed. She sat still for a moment, then smiled. “Father, there’s so many other dragons down here,” she said. “Like us! I know Furywing already, and I saw the tauren one but I would really like to speak to them.”

“Maybe when you can stand up on your own,” he said distractedly. He heard someone coming up the passage. “And don’t get too excited. When Vaxian is able, we’re leaving for the Dark Portal.”

She scratched the side of her face. “I do miss home,” she said. “But it has been so nice to see Azeroth. I forgot how big an ocean could be! I guess Zangarmash doesn’t count as one.”

“The ocean is rather magnificent, isn’t it?” Wrathion entered the room with a slide. “Though I hate flying over it. When I arrived in Pandaria, I flew on a gnomish machine.”

“What do you want?” Sabellian asked.

Wrathion eyed him sidelong. “I just came to pay my cousins a visit.”

Sabellian squinted at him. He didn’t like the look on the boy’s face. It was too enthusiastic.

“How generous,” he said. “Now go away.”

“Did I hear you were going to Nefarian’s lair?” Wrathion pressed forward. “I’d like to go.”

Eavesdropping snake. “Why?”

“I think it’d be interesting.”

“That’s what I said!” Pyria piped up. Sabellian growled at her. He looked back at Wrathion.

“Interesting,” he echoed. 

Wrathion flashed a smile.

“I’ve just always heard about Nefarian’s machinations,” he said. “And to see them up close…”

“There won’t be much left down there but rot.”

“Maybe.”

He didn’t have the patience for this right now. “What do you really want?”

Wrathion sniffed. “I just said. I want to go see it. And I’ve seen all I’ve had to see in this cavern.”

Something told him that Wrathion couldn’t leave him alone unless he could come. And if he still said no, the boy would no doubt find a way to follow him. He rumbled in irritation, and didn’t bother to hide it from his face, either. 

“Fine,” he snapped. “But we’re going there for herbs, and nothing else.”

Wrathion shrugged, but he did look pleased. “Wonderful. Don’t worry about me. I’m only there to observe.”

Pyria whispered. “Hey. Dad? Why is he still alive?”

The ex-Prince glanced at her and frowned.

Sabellian grunted. “I’ll explain later. Suffice to say he is no longer a threat.”

“Oh.” She thought about that, then shrugged. “Okay, well, bring me back a souvenir!”

  
  


\---

 

He was not going to bring her back a souvenir. 

The place already smelled like old blood and dirt - the kind of smell that clung to the clothes - and they hadn’t even gotten to the Lair yet.

“This is dreadful,” Wrathion said. “Like I’m walking through shadow!”

“You’re welcome to turn and leave,” Sabellian said. But the boy was right: the ruins of Blackwing exuded a darkness all their own, like a living evil.

Wrathion and Sabellian made their way down the main path. The ground was coated in dust. Cobwebs coiled in every corner, over fallen debris or metal or bones - bones so brittle they looked like  they could be turned to dust with only a hard look. 

Together they made their way down the path leading to Blackrock Lair.

Sabellian led the way with Wrathion and Left close behind. He still wasn’t sure why he’d allowed the boy and his pet orc to come. Probably because Wrathion would have found a way to follow him anyway. Or maybe because this let him keep an eye on the whelp. He didn’t relish being alone and underground again with him, though. Even if he’d ensnared Wrathion in a vow, he couldn’t help but wonder if Wrathion was musing over ways to get around it. The boy was too clever.

“You’ve never been to Nefarian’s lair, have you?”

“No,” Sabellian said. “I was in Outland when Nefarian took Blackrock.”

Wrathion grew quiet. Even though they could see fine in the dark, he carried a torch. The fire flickered and bounced off of the path, the already jagged walls growing more jagged still in the light. Sabellian suspected the torch was for the orc’s benefit; but really, what use was a rogue who couldn’t see in the dark?

“Well, I’m rather excited to see it,” Wrathion went on. “I’ve heard so many things about it. So many tantalizing stories. It’ll be interesting to see if they actually compare.”

“Accurately enough, I trust,” Sabellian rumbled. Even on Outland he’d heard the stories - most from mortals passing through, and prompted when they saw the dried out, impaled corpses up on Dragon’s End.

“Nefarian had dragons strung up like that,” a tauren had mentioned. “Up on the roof. In chains. No blacks ones, though.”

Of course he had. Even before his brother had taken Blackrock, Nefarian had still had his own lair where he’d practiced his twisted curiosities. Sabellian had been there before. He remembered walking in with news from Father to find a Bronze hanging upside-down from  the ceiling, looking for all the world like a butchered cow. Its throat had been slit, and the blood fell dripping into a vat below.

“It’s very thin blood,” Nefarian had said as he stood watching his kill bleed out. “I don’t think it’ll have much use at all.”

He then remembered how the Bronze had looked at him. They’d still been alive.

Sabellian blinked away the memory. He had no doubt he’d be seeing such reminders soon enough.

They turned a corner, where the path suddenly started in a steep incline. Both dragons sighed when they saw it.

But Sabellian still led the way forward. He wasn’t about to let on he was out of shape. So much so that had the old Lieutenant version of himself saw he’d spit in disgust.

It rose higher than expected, with the heat growing more and more intense, until at last they reached the crest of the path and it evened out before them.

No longer were they in a mountainous tunnel, but a large, crude cavern that, like much in Blackrock, had the feel of something dug out by dwarven hands. Some brickwork survived along parts of the floor and walls, but beyond that any form of Dwarven make had been scuffed away, whether intentionally or by the passing of time. At least in the cavern. A quick glance around showed that an archway led out to further recesses of the dungeon.

“We’re here,” Sabellian said. Wrathion crept up alongside him, looked around, and frowned.

“Very nice,” he said, then turned away and started toward the archway.

“Do you even know where you’re going?”

“Do you?” Wrathion called back without breaking stride. From behind him, the orc swallowed a sigh and followed.

Sabellian bristled and swept up to Wrathion’s side.

“Yes. Considering I was given directions to the herb stores.”

Wrathion smiled. “Of the two of us, I’m the only one willing to use the earth for directions,” he said. “I could most likely look through it right now and find the stores from our exact location.”

“Which is what my directions are for, prat.”

Wrathion turned up his face just enough for it to be annoying.

“But my way is much more fulfilling.”

Titans help him. 

“Has the Spiritwalker stuffed your head with more nonsense already?”

They came to an entranceway antechamber now, fully built and paved, though the upkeep left much to be desired: the pavement and stonework lay cracked, ripples and shattermarks webbed through the columns, and skeletons littered the floor. Beyond the three, the corridor led to another section mirroring the one they had come from, though this one was dark enough that even Sabellian had trouble discerning what lay inside. He could only see large figures clumped together, but nothing more.

“This way,” Sabellian said, ignoring what seemed to be the entrance from the outside the mountain for a balcony that stretched to their left.

“I’d like to take a look around before we leave,” Wrathion said.

“This isn’t a field trip,” Sabellian said as he made his way to the balcony. Their steps scuffed into echoes of the darkness. The silence here didn’t feel malevolent. It felt… forgotten, or dead. “We get what we need and leave.”

They were on the balcony now, and Sabellian could imagine his brother’s glee at standing here with such a view.

The balcony wasn’t a balcony at all, but the ledge to wait for the ever-rising-and-falling elevator. The distant whir of whatever Dwarven machinery kept it operational hummed from somewhere down below.

And the elevator was no superfluous need. From where they stood the ledge dropped suddenly into a fall that would kill any mortal.

A drop that led into the heart of Blackwing Descent.

In the dark below waited a circular paved level, which from it sprouted brief flights of stairs leading into other areas of the Lair. In the very center lay a pit of darkness; he could just make out something white glinting like a shell in the feeble light.

Very feeble light. Sabellian lifted a hand and sent fire scattering in all directions. It jumped into lanterns caked with rust, into scones bolted into the walls shaped like dragons from all Flights except Black, bowing their chained heads in supplication as their offered palms held the flame, into gouges that encircled the entire chamber along the wall until multiple rings of flame danced along the stone.

It had been less malevolent in the pitched shadows. Now, the light illuminated the lingering scraps of Nefarian's curiosities.

Such as the dragons hanging from the ceiling.

Dragons, and parts of them. A foreleg missing two talons hung in chains, and suspended from below that, a wing, giving the effect of a morbid windchime. In other areas the chains hung empty, as if what had been there had been taken. Others were not su lucky: two dragons remained, though their scales were so rotted away and mummified that is was impossible to tell what Flight they were from. They and the other chains swayed slowly in a breeze that went unfelt.

The otherwise emptiness of the Descent made it all the eerier.

The elevator rumbled up and stopped at the edge. Gears clicked muffled from beyond the stone.

Sabellian sighed and stepped onto it.

“Are you coming?” he said when Wrathion didn’t follow. He looked back. The whelp stared up at the dragons, though his eyes were fixed on the chain full of parts.

“Boy,” he prodded. The orc nudged him and Wrathion jolted.

“Yes! Yes.” Wrathion jumped onto the elevator the rogue close behind, just as the elevators groaned into life and it stared down again.

“If we’re lucky, that’s all we’ll see,” Sabellian said. 

“I’ve seen much worse things.”

“Oh really? Like what?”

Their eyes met. It might have been imagined, but Wrathion glanced down, for the barest of seconds, at Sabellian’s gut: right where the boy had stabbed him.

Wrathion gave a lazy shrug and looked away. “A swarm of Old God worshipping bugs wasn’t very pleasant. Wouldn’t you say, Left?”

Left raised her eyebrows as if surprised he’d included her in the conversation.

“Wasn’t my favorite assignment,” she grumbled. 

The slab thundered and halted to however a temporary a stop. The party slipped off before it began to rise again.

“Seldarria said they were in the western chambers,” Sabellian said. Now that they were down here, he saw details he hadn’t noticed from above. Like the bodies. Nearby lay a skeleton crumpled in on itself and still armored in chainmail. Another one like it sat slumped near the elevator as if they had died waiting for it.

“Treasure hunters,” Left said with a sniff. 

They moved around the skeletons. A rat peeked out from underneath one of their helmets and watched them as they passed.

“He isn’t stuffing my mind with anything. By the way.”

“What?”

“Ebyssian. Ebonhorn. Whatever.” Wrathion glanced at him sidelong. “You should really try giving him a chance.”

Sabellian took a long, deep breath, but he couldn’t stop the rough swell of anger crackling at his fingers.

“So, you meet a dragon and trust him at once for what he is?”

Wrathion’s eyes flickered; he understood the implications at once.

“It was a much different atmosphere then,” he said. “You and your brood were a surprise.”

“And now what? You’ve come to expect it?”

Wrathion swept back some of his hair falling in his face. “We just found two other dragons down here. Expect it? No… but I’m not as… hmm… flustered.” The boy had a distant look in his face, like he was holding back something, or thinking on the reality of his words in some way Sabellian didn’t understand. Yet.

“Oh? And what about safeguarding Azeroth from the corrupted?”

The look on Wrathion’s face grew stranger.

“That isn’t my charge.” But even as he said it Wrathion furrowed his eyebrows.

“I see. What a change of pace. How charming it only took the death of two of my children, the crippling of one, and the suffering of them all until you came to such a conclusion.”

Wrathion’s face grew hard. “I thought I was doing the right thing.” 

Sabellian snorted, but he didn’t press it. The conversation would do no good, neither for Wrathion or for himself. It’d make him get angry, and it’d make Wrathion distracted. He needed both of them to keep a lookout for anything the Lair might still have lingering. And anyway: they’d said all they could say on the matter. Wrathion had even apologized. 

Kind of. At least in his own way.

“At least,” Sabellian forced himself to say, in perhaps the angriest way possible, “you’ve come to your senses.”

Wrathion shot him a sidelong glare.

They crossed through the shadow of one of the dragon corpses. He was thankful for the lack of smell; the scent of rotting dragon had become much too familiar when his eldest clutch had decayed so close to their settlement.

“And anyway,” Wrathion hurdled on with a flourish of his hand, “Ebonhorn is very interesting to talk to! You should have joined us in the ritual.”

He’d forgotten all about that. “I’m sure it was very inspiring. Did Azeroth give you glowing praises?”

“You should come next time.”

Wrathion jabbered on, but it fell into background noise as Sabellian glanced into the pit in the center of the pavilion.

In the pit lay two bodies. The dragons were badly decomposed - mostly just bone and skin, now, with mummified pockets of flesh.

But despite all the rot and corrosion, he recognized them.

His brother and sister: Nefarian and Onyxia.

Sabellian froze. He stood, transfixed, on the edge of the pit, his gaze on his two clutch mates below.

He wasn’t sure what feeling consumed him in that moment. There lay his siblings, the ones their Father had favored, the ones who had tried to kill him when they were young and had fueled a rivalry among each other when they were older. Those that had risen to infamy while he had been forgotten and abandoned and -

“Sabellian?”

He flinched. 

Wrathion came up to his side and looked down. He raised his eyebrows.

“... Are those really -”

“Yes,” Sabellian said, voice hollow. “They are.”

They stared down at them. Nefarian lay atop Onyixa. His head was half-way severed. Three of his talons were cut away. His eyes had rotted out. Great score marks littered his mummified hide. Onyxia’s maw was locked in an open position, and was utterly toothless. Tubes punctured her body from where Nefarian had installed shadowflame vents to reanimate her body. One of her wings had rotted off the joint, and now lay crumpled like a fallen flag beside the two of them.

There they were. Dead and rotting. 

Just like he’d always imagined. And hoped for. And celebrated.

And yet -

“You loathed them, didn’t you? I seem to recall you telling me that.”

Wrathion’s voice felt far away. 

“How could I not?” he replied distantly. “They took sibling rivalry to methods I would rather keep in the dark, even now.” 

Wrathion hummed. He glanced at him sidelong, then raised an eyebrow. “You seem less… enthused than I imagined.”

“Yes,” Sabellian said. “I think so too.”

The broodfather frowned. He stared at them, at their still, destroyed bodies. 

“I always fantasized about this,” he said suddenly, forcefully, as if admitting a personal sin. “Seeing their corpses. Being the last alive. Nefarian always said I would be pummeled, and Onyxia said I would be outmaneuvered.” He didn’t know why he was talking, especially to the boy, but somehow he couldn’t bear the silence.

_ This is your fate too _ , it seemed to say. One day he would die because of his madness, whether by his own hand or by the hands of someone like Wrathion or his mortal champions. One day he and all his children would be rotting and forgotten in some crevice, on Blade’s Edge or on Azeroth.

_ You can’t escape. Just like they couldn’t. _

All that separated him from them now was a feeble charm, burning cold against his chest. Furywing had called him on it. How thin the line was. Was he really lying about who - what - he was to himself?

He knew what he was feeling.

Hollow.

“At least your last remaining sibling isn’t corrupted,” Wrathion said.

“He could have been,” Sabellian said. “If Father had grabbed Onyxia’s egg for stasis instead of Ebonhorn’s, then we’d be looking at your Spiritwalker’s body, and Onyxia may be some beloved figure like your tauren.”

“But that’s not what happened.”

“No. But it could have, easily enough.” He looked over Onyxia again, and could imagine Nefarian lovingly installing the tubes and wires into her corpse, making her into another one of his experiments. 

He continued, filling the silence, talking perhaps not to Wrathion but to himself, to speak out what he was feeling. 

“Once...once I was as terrible as they were. But here I stand, and there they lay, only because I went somewhere they did not. I sometime wondered what they would have really been like without…”

He shook his head. No use thinking of such things now. 

“I guess we’ll never know,” Wrathion said, face creased thoughtfully.

“No. I guess not.” He pulled himself away. “Come. We have other things to do.”

Sabellian moved away and began his quiet walk. Wrathion lingered at the edge for a moment before following.

“Should we just  _ leave _ them there?”

“What else should we do?”

“Burn them?”

Sabellian grunted. “No. Leave them. There is no one else to raise them for a third time.”

Silence fell between them, a new, heavy feeling settling between the party. A numbness, too, settled on him. After almost thirty years, he’d seen his hated siblings again. Corpses, but corpses with reminders.

_ One day this will be you, and all you love. _

They went up one of the short flights of stairs and turned into a new chamber. Like the first room they’d come into, it was like a stone box, with dwarven architecture. A large corpse lay in the center near a cauldron as tall as kodo’s back.

“That must be Maloriak,” Wrathion said. “Those are such bizarre looking Dragonspawn.”

“I’m sure the creature looked more bizarre when it wasn’t a bag of bones,” Sabellian said distractedly. He tried to focuss. Seldarria had said a pit had been dug out in the wall to make room for Maloriak’s stores. The dragonspawn had been an alchemist, she’d told him, and it hadn’t surprised Sabellian much. Nefarian wasn’t stellar in alchemy, a fact which might surprise many. Biology, anatomy, magic? Of course. But alchemy - he had often relied on Sabellian’s advice for such things.

At last he spotted it, hidden and shadowed behind Maloriak’s body.

He made his way toward it. Inside, he could just make out rows upon rows of boxes and jars and vials. Some had been ransacked. Others lay plain in sight.

He crossed the archway into the room.

“Wait!” Sabellian glanced behind him just as Wrathion grabbed his shoulder and pulled him out of the room.

Right as an explosion erupted in front of his face. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	41. Chapter 41

The blast sent them reeling back.

Heat and the roar of the explosion smashed into him. Something hard hit his shoulder. He grunted, turning away with the pain. Noise crashed and smoldered around him.

The ringing in his ears swallowed the passage of time and movement. Dead? No, he was in too much pain for death.

_ Thud thud. Thud thud. _

He opened his eyes.

The world hazed around him; smoke and ash gushed around the room, curled around his legs.

He’d landed hard on his back. With a groan, he forced himself to sit up. Pain thudded in his shoulder, but it was secondary - secondary to watching the supply nook. His vision began to stabilize, and with it, he watched the flames gush from the room. More flames and smaller explosions boomed inside as the heat set off more flammable reagents. Something like lightning flashed within, and a low, ominous groan, the crackle of breaking crates and flasks, emanated from the doorway like the sound from a monster’s open gullet. 

“Why,” groaned a voice behind him, “does everything go wrong when you’re around?”

Sabellian glanced back. Wrathion was sitting up, cringing. Ash fell around them like snow. It coated the two of them - no, three, there was Left, struggling to her feet - already in a fine powder. 

He stared at the boy. The room no longer rang, his eyes no longer shook - he remembered. Someone tugging on him. 

“Boy. Why did you do that?”

Wrathion rubbed his head and looked over. A gash lay streaked on his temple. Blood matted his bangs. He blinked. “I’m no good with explosives. If you  _ really _ think -”

“You just saved my life. Or from an unfortunate maiming.”

Wrathion blinked again, slowly. 

He looked at the door, then at him, then back again.

“I certainly did, didn’t I?” He opened his mouth, closed it, and frowned. His brows furrowed. “Hm.”

An unfortunate answer. Sabellian grunted as he forced himself to stand. He brushed the ash from his robes. The snake heads along his shoulderpads guttered back to life with a hiss, and their fel-green orbs cast an ill glow on the flames. Heat crackled around them.

Left was already on her feet. Ever a hare, that one, always moving and fidgety. She helped Wrathion up. Beyond the gash the boy was relatively unharmed. And so was he. Except his shoulder. He glanced around. Ah - there. A piece of the stone archway, next to where he had landed. It must’ve blown back into him with the flames. 

Lucky. Too lucky. As the flames roared, he noted the rest of the debris, littered around them. Shards of glass, larger rock, even some nails that had been blown out of the foundations. He shook his head.

Massively lucky.

“What’d you see?” Sabellian approached the alcove slowly. A foul, bitter smell rolled out from the smoke.

“Trip-wire,” Wrathion said. He joined him. The heat and dying flames reflected, opaque, in the red of his eyes. He pointed to the side. A small, almost imperceptible wire lay snapped near the entrance.

“You saw that,” Sabellian said, disbelieving.

“I trained with rogues. Of course I saw it.” He looked around, squinting. “But that’s the only trap. Hmm.”

“Who knew we would be down here?” Left asked. Her crossbow was loaded, and she looked at the corpse of Maloriak as if he had something to do with it. 

Sabellian and Wrathion glanced at one another.

“Seldarria,” Sabellian rumbled.

He thought back to when he had asked her for the stores. She’d seemed distracted, impatient for him to leave.

_ “And there’s reagents for- ” _

_ “Yes, yes, yes! Now go on.” _ And then she’d turned and hastily retreated back into her cavern.

If she had set up the trap, she hadn’t done that much to assure he would fall into it.

Was it a trap left over by Maloriak? By adventurers? Something in his gut told him no. He rumbled, rubbed a hand over his aching shoulder. A shelf gave way inside the supply closet and smashed in a heap of char and flame.

Only one way to find out.

He waved a hand over the alcove. A tracking spell swept from his fingers, light blue and airy but intent, a bloodhound stiff-nosed to the ground. The smoky tendrils coiled around the wire, the destroyed door frame, the pieces of rubble.

The feeling that pulsed back wasn’t the energy he expected. In fact the energy went beyond him. A trail of the light-blue mist hummed into existence before them. It snaked around Maloriak, through the room, and back into the core of the lair.

A power source. The one that had fueled the explosion.

“What?” Wrathion prompted.

“Come.” Sabellian moved past the whelp and his orc and made his way back into the lair. The trail hovered twinkling in the dark; it coiled around to another of the chambers, its contents hidden in the dark.

Sabellian’s shoes clicked hard and clipped on the stones. Every bit of him was on alert, open to attack. On edge before? No, he was on edge now, truly, eyes narrowed and hands twisting back and forth against his sides.

He’d almost just died. A trap set just for them. He knew it. This was no ancient thing left behind. The coincidence would be insurmountable. 

But Seldarria? She had only just known they were going into the Depths. No conceivable notion surfaced that could explain how she could learn they were going and then bolt down to set the trap. They would have run into her, and she couldn’t move so fast.

Anger built in his belly. 

Someone had tried to kill him. Again.

They paced up the small set of stairs leading up into the chamber. Left stopped, crossbrow raised. 

“Wait,” she said. “I’ll scout it first.”

Sabellian grunted, but stopped. Left looked at Wrathion. The boy nodded, but only after a moment’s hesitation.

The orc disappeared. The smell of her distanced into the chamber.

“If someone wanted to kill us down here,” Wrathion drawled, “they’re going to be surprised to see us come back.”

“And if they were clever, they would act surprised to find someone tried to kill us.”

Wrathion studied the chamber. The trail continued to hover before them, motionless and glowing in the dark. 

“Seldarria,” he said at last. “She seemed the most harmless of them all, didn’t she? A little bit… hm…  _ airy _ .” 

Sabellian grunted. “And?”

“Why would she want to kill us?”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow and looked down at him. “The same reason the dragonkin attacked us. We’re not wanted here.”

Wrathion’s expression didn’t change, but there was a shift in his eyes, a glitter of something. “The corruption?”

“Yes. The corruption. Why am I the one suggesting that, and not you?”

Wrathion said nothing. He shifted his weight from side to side.

“They didn’t attack us on sight like the dragonkin.”

“No, they didn’t.”

Wrathion turned to look at him. “So why did she attack us now?”

Sabellian rubbed his shoulder. The ache remained, a steady beat. No doubt for a while. “We’re alone, away from our allies. Away from my children. An easy execution without witnesses.” The orc had better hurry up. If he was in danger, his children were too. Rexxar as well. He crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot. Lead him away, kill him, kill his children. Cut out the “traitors,” as the dragonkin had called them.

But Seldarria had been caring for Vaxian.

Interesting.

Wrathion set his lips in a thin line and looked away. His eyes reflected his troubled thoughts.

“What are you thinking, boy?” Sabellian prodded. The whelp wasn’t rising to the corruption bait as easily as he usually did, all foaming at the mouth. 

“Nothing,” Wrathion mumbled. 

He glanced sidelong at the pit. Left appeared in a snap of smoke in front of them. Sabellian jerked back with a hiss.

“Sir. Come. Hurry.”

Wrathion raised his eyebrows. Sabellian didn’t like the look on her face - something like surprise and disbelief. 

She turned and hurried up the stairs. The two followed.

The room was built in the same frame the other had been: all square and large and roomy. It smelled of forgotten rot and bone, a dreadful mix of damp and dry death that even he had to choke back a sudden gag. A large wall split the room in half, and doors bolted into the sides. It was a stable; a holding area; a prison. 

His stomach churned. He could only imagine what had once been housed here. Kidnapped mortals, failed experiments, beasts that would be ripped apart and stitched together again. This place, too, was a supply nook - just not of herbs and reagents, but of flesh and blood.

Some of the doors’ locks were open. Left beckoned them toward the nearest one. The trail ended there, and as they approached, dissipated into the darkness. Its work was done.

“In here,” the orc said, and gestured with her crossbow. The door was large enough to allow an elekk to easily pass through.

“What’s in it?” Wrathion eyed it nervously.

“Open it,” she said.

Sabellian kicked open the door.

Despite the size of the door, it was a small room, the ceiling low, cramped. The smell of rot was strong here, but so was the smell of hopelessness, like a sour feeling in the back of his throat. Hopelessness and heaviness. Many had died in here.

But not quite its new inhabitants. Not yet.

Chained along the walls, tethered against hooks and sconces and spikes, languished nether-drakes.

_ The  _ nether-drakes. Sabellian recognized some of them from hunting trips in Outland. These weren’t just random dragons, plucked from the Void. These were the ones who had vanished when Pyria had gotten hurt.

They looked up. Their eyes shined dull in the feeble light, hollow and sunken. The darkness of the place was like the Void itself, punctured only by the natural glow of the nether-drakes’ bodies. But even so their glow was as dull as their eyes: a dying candle.

“Sabellian?” croaked one of the closest.

“Finally,” wheezed another, this one purple. She was hooked up to a series of tubes and metal frames; needles lay positioned the pierce her at the edge of the tubes, inches away from her flesh. “Someone’s found -”

“What’s  _ he _ doing here?” another said. His eyes flickered to Wrathion.

Sabellian strode forward. He counted seven drakes in total. 

“Who did this?”

“How do we know you’re not with them, too?”

Sabellian glanced deeper inside. Another drake lay off to the side. He was so pale, of so little glow, that Sabellian had not noticed him in his first count. Was he dead? No, there was a breath, shuddering and anguished. He looked like a salamander, all jelly of flesh.

“Someone just tried to turn us to ash,” Sabellian said. Well, he had had Pyria worked up against finding the drakes. Here they were. Easy. Wouldn’t she be happy. “No doubt the same enemy who did…  _ this _ to you.”

Wrathion slipped past him and started untying the nearest drake’s chain. She hissed. The boy did not respond. 

Left joined him.

The drakes watched this suspiciously, and only then did they speak.

“The Dragonkin ambushed us,” one said: the one chained to the tubes, the purple one. “They dragged us down here.” Every word sounded a struggle. Sabellian started to help the others untie the drakes. The chains lay cold in his hands; he wondered as to their enchantment.

“What’ve they been doing down here?” Wrathion squinted at the dull dragon.

“Draining us,” wheezed another, a blue. “Taking our energy away in those tubes.”

“And I was supposed to be next,” the purple said. She gestured with a claw to the vials around her, the needles.

“Please help Ralfas first.”

“They took almost all of his nether -”

“Who is this  _ they _ ?” Sabellian demanded.

“I think her name was Seldarria,” said a yellow. “That strange-looking dragonkin called her that.”

Seldarria. Seldarria. He growled and glanced at Wrathion. He gave a small nod without looking back.

_ I’m going to kill her. And that little runt of a dragonkin.  _

They freed most of the drakes before they spoke again. Those freed stretched, groaned as their joints popped. Already some of their glow had returned. 

The nether must have fueled the explosion. The lightning energy that had popped from inside… of course.

“Is Pyria alright?” the purple asked.

“She was left behind,” Sabellian said. “Apparently they didn’t need anything from her.”

“But she’s alright?”

“She’s fine.” Sabellian knelt down to inspect the drained drake. Ralfas. The netherdrake didn’t look up at him despite being conscious. He was like a corpse, half a moment from becoming undead. He’d never seen a nether-drake so… transparent. Even corpses had more glow. If he squinted, he could make out the dragon’s bones, his flesh was so see-through.

“What is she using this energy for?”

“I don’t know,” the purple said. She padded over to Ralfas and lay near him. She set one of her wings along his side. A hum grew from her. Sabellian took a step back as lightning-like energy arced from her body and nestled into Ralfas’s. She grew duller, he grew brighter. “Neltharaku used to tell us that some had kidnapped us for our energy before.”

“Yes, the Black Dragonflight did,” Wrathion interrupted. “For the Twilight Dragonflight.”

Sabellian rumbled. “She would need subjects for making more Twilight. If that’s what she’s doing at all.”

Why?  _ Why _ ? He’d sensed no energy thrumming in the chambers, and though he had never experienced a Twilight dragon, he knew they exuded chaotic, almost void-like energies. There had been nothing like that.

And make more Twilight? Laughable. What, were the Old Gods so desperate for some scraps they could do with one or two misshapen Twilights? How diabolical.

“We hardly know anything about her,” Wrathion added. “Left. Send some Agents to scour for some… reconnaissance on our new friend.”

“Should we report this to those in the cavern?” Left asked.

“No,” Sabellian interrupted. “We keep this as quiet as possible.”

“Our Agents can set up a perimeter,” Left argued. “If this dragon tries anything -”

“Then she is welcome to try it,” Sabellian snapped. “We are going to go back and get my children. Then we are leaving.”

“What about us?” said a nether-drake, one who hadn’t spoken until then.

“You’re free, aren’t you? You can go.”

Wrathion widened his eyes. “We’re leaving? Now? But - she - but someone just tried to kill us! They’re harvesting nether energy!”

“All the more reason to leave!”

“Oh, so someone tries to kill you now, and this time you let it go!”

“Yes, just as you are now the most amicable of friends with a black dragon you barely know!” His voice, unbidden, rose to a shout. It echoed off the walls. He growled and forced his temper down. “I came here to fetch my children. Do you think I care about what’s happening down here?”

“Seldarria’s lackeys did hurt Pyria,” mumbled the yellow.

“Yes. And make no mistake, boy. I will be killing her,” Sabellian growled. “Before we leave.” He gestured loosely to the nether-drakes. “Stay here for now. Join us at Nefarian’s old throne plateau tonight.”

He turned and strode out. Wrathion caught up with him.

“Surely you’re being dramatic.”

“I’ve never been less so.” 

“I don’t know about that,” Wrathion mumbled. Sabellian eyed him sidelong. The ex-Prince drew himself up. “I don’t know what Seldarria is doing either. But whatever it is, she tried to kill us to keep it hidden. Surely that must’ve been why. It makes the most  _ logical  _ sense.”

“And?”

“And whatever it is, she knows neither of us might approve, hm? So clearly -”

“We are not going to waste time snooping around for some dangerous secret.”

“It could be another Twilight clutch! Some experiment she’s setting to unleash on the nearby human or dwarven settlements!”

Sabellian grunted. “That has nothing to do with me,” he said. “If Seldarria unleashes what it is she’s doing, then it is not my problem.”

Wrathion stopped.

“For once,” he snapped, “Can you be a little less selfish?”

Sabellian narrowed his eyes. 

He stopped and slowly turned around to face the young dragon. Wrathion had drawn up to his full height, and held his hands as fists to his sides.

“Selfish?” Sabellian repeated. “I’m selfish for caring for my family?”

“At the sheer extent you do, yes!” Wrathion insisted. “I know you well enough by now that if -  _ Titans _ forbid someone isn’t apart of your approved circle of selflessness, everything and everyone else may as well be hot air!” He pointed at the nether-drakes, none of which were trying to politely look away. “We just freed them from being sucked just shy of their souls, and all you can think to do is run away?”

Sabellian growled. He approached Wrathion. The boy didn’t move or flinch.

“My family,” he growled, “is all I have left, and all I will ever have. There is no reason for me to care about Seldarria, or them, or the mortals that might be in danger.” He parted his lips in a scowl. “And don’t try and act like you are some pinnacle of goodness, boy. I recall you killing nether-drakes.”

“At least I’m trying to be better!” Wrathion exploded. “I’m not the self-centered relic who already thinks his life is over! And at least I’m not taking out my helplessness on everyone else!”  
Sabellian snatched Wrathion by the collar and yanked him close.

“I. Live. For my children,” he hissed. “I live to protect them from - _ nonsense _ like this.” He jerked his head in the nether-drake’s direction. “My life isn’t over unless they  _ die _ . Why should I try to be  _ better _ when I know what I am and what I’m going to do? I am going back up, getting my three children, and getting them away. If it makes me selfish -” He jerked Wrathion closer. “I. Don’t. Care.”

He threw Wrathion away. The boy stumbled back, caught himself.

“Don’t worry, boy. I don’t expect you to understand. You don’t have a family. Of course you cling to Azeroth so dearly. At least one thing on this world tolerates you.”

Wrathion snarled. Fire flickered against his fingers, but he could launch no attack: the Celestial Vow forbid him.

“I’m trying to do my duty to this world,” the whelp snarled. “I’m trying to protect her. Which is why we should investigate this -”

“Oh, shut up,” Sabellian said. “You want to feel like you’re worth something? Worthy of the Titans’ grand and noble duty?” He pointed at the pit, where his dead siblings lay. “That’s your reward. Do you think Azeroth saved them? Or my Father? Or me? No. She failed us.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that -”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure she assured you that it would be safe from what befell our kin. Just like she protected us last time.” He snorted. “Did she say that we could be saved now? She did, didn’t she? She gave you hope, perhaps. Something for you to cling to. It’s why you hesitated about Seldarria’s corruption before. My, how a conversation with a god can’t change one’s convictions. How enlightened and  _ goo _ d you are. Did that little blond rub off on you too much?”

Wrathion ground his teeth.

“I want to help. Forgive me for not wanting to be like the rest of you.”

“You’re just like the rest of us,” Sabellian growled. “You can try to change, you can try to hide it or pretend you’re different, but you’ll always be a black dragon.” He pushed Wrathion away. “Just like me. Selfish. And if I am terrible and wrong for being selfish for my family, then so be it.”

He turned and strode down the stairs. “Come. We’re leaving. And you had better follow.”

 

\---

  
  


Sabellian found Seldarria where he’d seen her lounging every hour: in front of her cave, dozing idly, head on her paws.

As he approached, he transformed down into his human form. The shift of energy caught her attention. She opened one eye and looked at him.

Nothing changed in her expression. No surprise. No fear. Just the same lazy, smug look.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re back.”

She craned her back back and yawned. 

“I need to speak with you.”

“Oh, dear? About what?”

Sabellian nodded into the cave. Seldarria paused. She flicked her tail.

“In private.”

The dragon tilted her head at him. For only a moment there lay some unease in her eyes, but she sighed and then it was gone.

“Oh, alright,” she breathed. “But do make it quick. I’m the one who needs to go hunting soon, and I do need my rest for it. I really should have never trusted Serinar with  _ such _ a simple task. He probably got himself captured again, the useless dolt. At least he has a nice set of fins to look at. Very curvy. No offense, yours are just much too stiff.”

It took every inch of his willpower not to just shift into his true form again and rip her tongue out.

Smoke gushed over her form and shrank down with a languid flourish. A human stood in her place, tall, dark-skinned, and a little plump. She wore a gown-like robe that even he was a bit jealous of: black silk and jewel-tones trimmed along the hem and sleeves. Some ceremonial armor lay as if forgotten on her shoulders and chest: a silver cut, emblazoned with symbols he didn’t know the words for. 

Mortals always said it was hard to match a dragon’s face to their mortal guises’. Sabellian never understood why. She still had the same wide-set eyes, the small nose, the lazy smugness to her expression.

Then again, most mortals were stupid.

“Shall we?” she said.

Sabellian swept past her, into the dark of the cave. Another trap could lay within; an ambush; a Faceless One, for all he knew. 

But he was prepared this time.

He waited until they were out of earshot, and far away from the opening of the cave that no one could see them inside. He turned at once on his heel to face her. She startled back.

Too slow.

He grabbed her by the shoulder and squeezed. Hard.

She yelped. Before she could pull away, he backed her deeper into the cave and smashed her against the wall.

“Thought you could get rid of me?” he growled, teeth bared. “Thought you were going to be clever?”

Seldarria’s eyes darted back and forth. Anywhere but him.

“I don’t know what -”

He smacked her back against the wall.

“I am not in the mood to play this game,” he snarled, inches away from her face. “Why did you try to kill me?”

Seldarria locked eyes with him at last. 

“You’re here to ruin everything,” she hissed. “You and that murderer!”

The paranoia which had lingered in her eyes the first time they had come to the antechamber returned, all flashing and rabid. Her pleasantries were gone; her manner less refined. All it’d taken was a small chisel to break open the outer layer, and not even with a hard hit. More like a tap.

Her answer, though… the stupidest and most obvious answer she could have given. He growled. “I told you before and I will tell you again: I’m here for my children. If you had listened, and stalled your hand, then maybe you would be alive to see another day.”

“No!” she shrieked. Her fear returned, and she struggled against his hold. “Don’t kill me! You can’t!”

“Do you think I’m going to send the message that anyone who tries to kill me and harm my children are allowed to live?”He tightened his hold on her.

“You can’t,” she insisted. Only then, up so close to her, did it become obvious that though she kept glancing back and forth, eyes white and wide like a scared animal, she favored looking deeper inside the cave.

He narrowed his eyes. He’d said he didn’t care, and he still didn’t. But something about her responses, her desperation and body language, felt… familiar.

“What’s back there?”

“Nothing,” she whispered. She went still.

He pulled her away from the  wall and started pushing her deeper in the cave.

She said nothing. There were times where she tensed, like she was about to try to push him off or maybe shift into her true form, but he responded by growling and she would still. Unlike the boy, this dragon knew how to pick fights, and this was not a wise one.

They turned around a quiet bend. Inside lay a cavern with wide, smooth sides and a great heat blowing from a gap in the ceiling.

Sabellian stopped.

Titans help him.

“Whose are  _ these _ ?”

In the center, nestled in cave moss, were eggs. A dozen, maybe, their spikes already grown and glinting like polished stone in the heat.

“Mine,” she whispered. “And my mate is dead.”

Sabellian glanced at them all. They were older eggs, fall along in the shell if they had as much scabbing as he could see.

“Please ease my worries, then, Seldarria: you can’t possibly be using the nether on these. On your  _ own _ eggs.”

“You found them?”

“Answer the question.”

“They’re sick,” she said. “They should be moving more. I can’t feel them moving as much as I should be.”

Sabellian shook his head slowly and glanced down at her. Her wide-eyed stare had returned, but now it took a sheen of new desperation, a sort of unseeing paranoia.

“They don’t move much,” Sabellian said distantly, thrown off. “And somehow you think that the nether energy can help them.”

“The nether energy is strong,” she insisted. “The first infusion has already done so much.”

He looked up and narrowed his eyes at the eggs. No nether; no energy. On these eggs? No. Perhaps on others he couldn’t see.

“How on Azeroth did you think that would help?”

“I had a feeling when the Dragonkin captured them. I just knew.”

Sabellian looked at the clutch. He had a feeling of just how she’d gotten such an idea.

The room felt all the darker.

“If you kill me they’ll die,” she said. “Please -”

“Furywing was a broodmother. She can -”

“Furywing is an insect,” Seldarria hissed. Her voice was guttural, full of vitriol. “A mewling coward. She didn’t like this. Didn’t like how it made him shake. But she’ll see. Of course she will. She usually does, eventually, the poor thing. Always quivering like a leaf...”

“Him.” Seldarria went still. Sabellian dug his claws against her shoulders. “Who is him?”

“No one to concern -”

“Why were you healing Vaxian?” His claws popped against her robe, into her skin. Red tinged his vision.

_ The first infusion has already done so much. _

She looked up at him.

“You don’t belong here.”

He tightened his hold on her. She glanced down at his throat - where Chi-ji’s pendant clasped tight around his neck.

She lunged for it.

Sabellian jerked away. Seldarria’s fingers closed around the amulet. His hand found her wrist.

The other dragon snarled. A flash of power erupted between them. Sabellian didn’t move, didn’t dare to.

She tried to pull it off with all her strength but he had her with all of his. 

She wheezed. “You’re a coward,” she said. “The great lieutenant Sabellian, reduced to an ant. No wonder she speaks so lowly of you, oh, haha! No wonder indeed!”

He snarled. He snapped his hand back. Her wrist snapped with a  _ crack _ . She shrieked. 

Smoke began to envelop her form. The fool was going to crush her own eggs in this small space if she transformed. 

He roared and threw her into the wall. She landed, grunting, shatter-marks signaling the power of the throw. Rocks fell from the ceiling. They crashed over her, pinned her to the floor. 

“It’s too late, lieutenant,” she called to him as he turned and ran from  the tunnel.  _ Vaxian. Samia _ .  _ Pyria.  _ “It’s too late!”

  
  


\---

  
  


Ebonhorn looked the young dragon over.

Vaxian breathed in short, shallow breaths, and his face fell clammy and drawn.

It would have been far easier if he could shift the dragon into his true form. He still had to take a look at the dragon’s wing. It wouldn’t heal correctly if it didn’t transform soon.

He pulled back at the bandages stuck around his back. The wound underneath was ugly, a puncture wound struggling to heal. Crushed herbs lay stuffed along the flesh. Puss and purple flesh striated along the dark skin.

Ebonhorn sighed.

Ten thousand years old and he had so little training with the healing arts. He’d have to ask some of the shamans to relearn some of the basics.

“Looks pretty bad,” a voice said from the other side of the room. He glanced over and smiled tiredly. The other dragon, Pyria, was sitting up in bed and watching him.

“We’ll hope that the herbs your Father brings will cool the infection,” he said.

Pyria continued to stare at him.

“How are you a tauren?”

He flicked his ears.

“I was raised in Highmountain, among the Thunder Totem tauren,” he explained. “I couldn’t walk around as a human or dwarf.”

Pyria leaned forward. “What was Highmountain like?” Something in her eyes felt hungry, desperate.

He studied her for a moment before speaking. “Full of life,” he replied, smiling. He turned and pulled some fresh bandages from the shelving. “Fauna and flora of all kinds. The mountains are full of air and sun. Not as… grim as these black peaks.”

“Oh,” she said, wistful. “That sounds so nice.”

“Where does your family come from? Somewhere in Outland, Wrathion said? It must be strange, coming to a different world.”

“Yeah. Well, I was hatched here. In Azeroth. Most of us were, actually, except for the whelps. I don’t really remember this planet much. Only Samia and Vaxian and the rest of his clutchmates do.”

“Hm.” Ebonhorn reset Vaxian’s bandages.

“We live in Blade’s Edge Mountains now. It’s nice and hot and dry. Not a lot of lava or anything though. And definitely not a lot of flora and fauna. We eat raptor, like, every day. Sometimes arrokoa. Have you ever tried one? They’re so stringy.”

“I don’t know what an arrakoa is,” he confessed.

She raised her eyebrows. “Really? Wow. Huh.”

He waited for her to explain what they were, but she did not. Very well.

“Outland is more than your mountains, surely?”

“Oh. Yes. But Father doesn’t let us go anywhere. For our safety.”

He frowned. “Do you have so many enemies?”

“Not that I know of. Anymore, anyway. But those were in Blade’s Edge. If you asked me we should have moved out of the mountains and into Nagrand.”

“What were they in Blade’s Edge?”

“I don’t really want to talk about them,” she said. “But they killed a lot of my siblings.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s just why my dad is kinda of crazy.” She paused, frowned, and added: “That’s probably a bad choice of words.”

Ebonhorn snorted in amusement.

“Maybe so,” Ebonhorn said. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to go home.”

“I do miss it,” she said. “But it’s been nice to see Azeroth. I wish we could actually live here.”

He smiled at her before turning back to her brother.

It fell from his face. These poor dragons. No wonder Sabellian was so stiff, angry. It felt cruel for Azeroth to send him here among them when he could do so little.

But he had to remember what Wrathion had seen. What she had told him. There had to be hope. For what? Even now he wasn’t sure. Peace? Unity? Freedom? It seemed far-fetched, a dream he might have had as a whelp.

He supposed he should just trust whatever it was that the World Soul wanted or had planned. She’d never strayed him away when he’d asked for her aid to help Highmountain. Why would she now?

He finished wrapping up Vaxian’s shoulder wound. He didn’t move or wake - same as always. He only shook, mouth slightly agape, his lips sometimes move to form silent words.

“You like Wrathion, huh?”

“He is… enthusiastic.”

Pyria giggled. “Yeah. He’s a little funny, isn’t he?”

“A little… funny?” he repeated. “Hm… yes, I suppose.” He eyed her. Odd way of speaking about someone who had killed some of her siblings.

“I know, I know,” she said, and sighed. “It’s going to seem really crazy -er… weird, but it’s just really nice to meet other dragons,” she said. “Even murdery ones like him. I mean, I love my clutchmates, but it’d be nice to be with someone else besides the dragon I hatched with, you know? After a while you run out of things to talk about!”

Ebonhorn snorted.

“I agree. You are all the first dragons I’ve ever met.”

Pyria stared at him. “So who taught you how to fly? Or hunt? Or -”

Vaxian’s eyes flew open. 

He gasped - a great, gulping gasping that seemed to be his very first breath, desperate and hungry.

He looked around wildly, blindly. His eyes sparked with a strange, lightning-like pulse.

“You’re alright,” Ebonhorn said. “You’re safe.”

Vaxian’s eyes found him. In that some breath, he clamped his hand around his wrist. Ebonhorn grunted in pain. The dragon was squeezing him with all his strength.

“You have to go,” Vaxian said. His voice was harsh, low from lack of use.

“I’m not here to harm you -”

“No.” Vaxian’s eyes were blind in their intensity. “You have to go. They’re going to come find you.”

Had this been any other patient, he would have dismissed it as rambling from fever.

But his gut felt like ice.

“Who?”

“Go!” Vaxian roared, and shook him by the wrist. “They’ve almost got me and they are going to get everyone else.” His eyes rolled in the back of his head. He gasped. “A thousand  eyes. They’re watching you.  They’ve got her too. She’ll kill you or turn you.”

“What’s going on?” Pyria asked, voice quaking.

Vaxian blinked. His eyes were back to normal.

“Run,” he said again. “Run! Tentacles reaching. Close. You have to go.”

Ebonhorn stood up.

“The others. Go! Get them! Run!”

“Your sister -”

“I’ll be fine,” Pyria said. “Just go. Find my dad. He’ll know what to do.”

She smiled at him, and her eyes flickered in fear.

“Pyria. You don’t have to do this -”

Vaxian grabbed him by the shoulders. His eyes stared, glazed with fever and blindness. 

“Go!”

He turned -

And threw him through the archway.

Ebonhorn turned in the air. It shrieked around him. He looked up, saw Vaxian’s blind eyes looking down at him, saw him turn away, saw lightning and shadow pulse from his body- 

He landed on his hooves; the rock shattered and cracked. A shock of pain rain up his legs.

When he looked up, a great slab of rock smashed up the archway, blocking the room from the outside.

\---

  
  


Sabellian almost ran into Ebonhorn on his way out of Seldarria’s cave.

“Watch where you’re going!”

Ebonhorn took a step back. The tauren flickered with tension, alarm.

Sabellian narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Ebonhorn looked around. “Are you alone?”

“Yes. What is it?”

Ebonhorn took one last look around before fixing his eyes on him.

“My vision is coming true,” he rumbled. “We need to set up some defenses or leave before -”

Sabellian grabbed him by the tunic.

“What happened?”

“Vaxian woke. His fever is ravaging him. He said that we’re being watched. That we’re being looked for.”

It felt like the world around him began to turn red.

“I think he may have gone mad,” Ebonhorn said slowly, pain on his face. “Or he’s nearly there.”

Sabellian let go. He looked around blindly. His head swam, rang like he’d just suffered another explosion.

“What are you doing here?” Ebonhorn said, his voice distant to his ears.  _ My son. Mad. Seldarria. I will make her suffer. _

Her words in his ears.

_ It’s too late! _

“Seldarria tried to kill the boy and I,” Sabellian said distractedly. “Move. I need to get my children and leave.”

He shoved past Ebonhorn. The tauren followed.

“Pyria? What about Pyria? How did you know about Vaxian?”

“I was healing him. Pyria - I don’t know. She -”

“You were healing him and you  _ left _ ?” Sabellian snarled, turned on him. “You left him there? You left Pyria with him?”

“The boy threw me from the room,” Ebonorn said, nostrils flared. “I would not have left -”

Sabellian cut him off with another snarl. He turned and hurried forward again.

“Where is Wrathion?” his brother asked.

“With his orc pet.”

“Seldarria. Where is she?”

“Back there,” he snapped, then jerked his head behind them. “Are you done asking questions?”

“One more. What are we going to do?”

“Get my children,” he rumbled. “And leave.”

“Vaxian -”

“I know what Vaxian is!” His roar echoed down the tunnels. He stopped, put his hands in his hair, closed his eyes. Fool. Fool. He should have known. Should have known they weren’t safe. He’d gone soft since Wrathion’s defeat. He should have  _ known _ .

Slowly, he exhaled, dropped his hands, and opened his eyes. “I know what he is,” he hissed. “I will get him last. First, we find Samia.”

“What if she’s -”

“She is not,” he snapped. “She can’t be.”

Words, and desperate ones. Words were wind. 

He saw Talsian before him, shuddering in pain and instantly, before he’d taken the drake’s neck in his jaws and snapped it. 

Titans help him, he was not going to lose any more children.

He moved past the tauren again, his heart thudding in his ears. Not from anger, or rage - but from fear.

 

\---

  
  


Wrathion slumped down against a boulder and breathed out hard.

“Oh, Left,” he groaned. “Why am I such a target for disaster?”

“I think it might be because you like the dramatics,” Left drawled. She was reloading her crossbow.

Wrathion looked up with a raised eyebrow. “What gave you a sense of humor?”

Left glanced down at him before looking back at her bow and snapping in some more ammunition.

“At this point, I think I have to have a good sense of humor to deal with all of this.”

Wrathion laughed. “I wish I could get one.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “You did save Sabellian’s life. I thought that was you having a sense of humor.”

Wrathion wrinkled his nose. “I only did it on instinct.”

Left smiled. “Mhm.” Her smile dropped. “I don’t like this waiting around. I can still send out an alert. It’s not too late.”

Wrathion played with the tassels on his cloak. The cave was cold.

“I’m still thinking about it. Trust me,” he rumbled. A dragon had just tried to kill him. The same one who’d been draining nether-drakes for energy. Doing Titans knew what with it. And he probably wouldn’t find out before Sabellian dragged him away through the dark portal.

He sighed and leaned back against the boulder. 

_ Just like the rest of us _ . Wrathion growled softly. Sabellian’s words kept circling in his head, and it didn’t help that he was sitting here and doing nothing - and so the words kept coming back, repeating, itching at his skull. 

_ Truly a black dragon _ . He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, felt some of the dried blood in his bangs catch and crumble away from his fingers. All harsh words, set to poison and insult. But didn’t he want to be like his own kind? 

No. Not like the kind Deathwing had corrupted with his blood. Not the overly cruel, manipulative, selfish …

But he’d been all those things before, without thinking. Some part of him wondered if that was really what Black Dragons were and always would be. 

And yet… Azeroth. She trusted him. He closed his eyes, remembered the fierceness in her, the righteousness, the power. How she had embraced him; put her faith in him. She wanted to help with them. With his own kind. Somehow, someway. Would a World Soul want to save dragons like him when their evil was all they could ever be?

No. No, he didn’t think so.

“I don’t get him,” he sighed. “Something like this and he just wants to run away.”

“At least he seemed serious about killing her.”

“If he was so serious, he’d be back by now,” Wrathion mumbled. “He was awfully stringent on getting out of here as fast as he could.”

He drummed his fingers on his knees.

Left stood up straight. She looked over at the entrance; Wrathion followed her eyes. 

Samia rounded into the cave.

She looked surprised to see them alone. She raised her eyebrows.

“Where is my father?”

“Visiting one of your friends,” Wrathion said.

Samia eyed him. Wrathion eyed her back.

“Which friend?”

“Seldarria.”

“What for?” 

Wrathion and Left glanced at one another without moving their heads.

Should they tell her? Was it safe? Was she?

“Seldarria tried to kill us,” Wrathion said. “Through an explosion.”

Left stared at him. Wrathion didn’t take his eyes off Samia. He was taking a calculated risk. He knew how to take one.

Samia shot upright. Her eyes blazed.

“She what?”

“In the herb stores,” Wrathion went on. “An explosion.”

“Is my father okay?” Samia put her hand on the hilt of her sword and stalked into the room. “Did anyone get hurt?”

Wrathion pointed at the cut on his forehead.

“A rock hit me.”

“I don’t care about you,” she said with a huff.

“But you did say anyone.”

“Listen, is my Father okay, or not?”

“He’s fine. If he wasn’t I don’t think he’d be up to killing another dragon.”

Samia stared at him. Then she cursed, turned around, and began hurrying from the room.

“Wait!” Wrathion scrambled to his feet. “Where are you going?”

“To stop my Father from hurting himself!”

Wrathion caught up to her. The cave was nestled in one of the squatter, quieter tunnels leading from the antechamber; Left had chosen it especially for its seclusion. Safe from anyone who might be looking for them. If Seldarria had friends up here, like Kyrak, she might want to finish the job.

“Is Seldarria so dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, steeled and unwavering. “But we can’t afford to let her be killed if she has any information.”

“So she seemed utterly normal before his.”

“Of course she did. I would’ve never  trusted Vaxian to her care if I thought otherwise.” She huffed, a scowl lifting her lips. “Unbelievable.”

Wrathion glanced at Left. The orc had silently followed when he’d gotten up to get to Samia. 

_ How did she find us? _ Came the orc’s voice in his bloodgem. He paused, but did not anything show on his face.

“I don’t understand why you came here in the first place,” Wrathion pressed on. He began to slow. He didn’t like this.

Samia grunted. “My brother was sick and injured. I thought my father was dead. My sister was missing. I didn’t have a big choice.” She pushed through a curtain of cave moss. “Come on. Do you really think I wanted to go to my crazy uncle’s old mountain?”

“Could have been heavily suggested.”

Samia glanced at him.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing.”

They turned around a bend in the cavern.

“This is the wrong way to the -”

Samia turned on her heel. She thrust her hand out. 

A wall of rock shot from the floor, separating Left from Wrathion. It smashed into the ceiling - cutting them off in the dark.

Left cried out in surprise, anger, muffled beyond the stone. Wrathion whirled around. Samia fixed her eyes on him, eyes glowing in the dark.

_ I think I might be the beacon for disaster. _

Samia flicked her hand toward him. He raised a hand to defend himself. Too slow.

Earth smashed into him. He flew back against the wall. The jagged edges and the force of the impact sent out his breath and his sense.  _ Thud thud. _ He sucked in a breath. The earth melded into the wall, locking him in place.

“What are you doing?!” He writhed against the bonds. His hands - they were free. Wrathion clenched onto into a fist and called upon his magic to push her away.

But he couldn’t.

It felt like he’d forgotten the words to a spell. Wrathion tried everything - but no magic came jittering into his fingertips.

“I think someone forgot their vows in the Celestial Trial,” Samia said. “You can’t hurt me, remember?”

Wrathion felt a rush of anger, indignation, fear. He growled at her.

Then he’d just get out.

He flexed his hands. Sparks flew. The earth holding him grew shatter-marks.

A feeling gripped him with such force, such suddenness, he gasped. His concentration broke. Void. Wrongnness. It assaulted everything he was. He desperately tried to curl away from it, but could go nowhere. It was every dark feeling in the world, and for a moment he was on Mason’s Folly, oozing Sha energy again, feeling all the hopelessness of the world on his shoulders.

_ Azeroth _ , he thought,  _ help! _

It was a desperate plea, and one that fell deaf. Azeroth wasn’t here. For the first time, Wrathion was alone. Utterly, terribly alone.

The room grew blacker, darker than dark. And on all sides oozed the same wrongness, the same terrible sense that sent every part of him squirming.

“I wouldn’t try using your bloodgems, either,” Samia said. She hadn’t moved since binding him; the dragon stood studying him, head tilted.

“What do you think you’re - urgh!” The stones tightened around him, sucked the air from his lungs.

“Titans, I hate hearing you talk.” Samia flexed her hands, and her eyes glinted in the dark, flickering like a candle.

The wrongness was becoming overwhelming. Wrathion blinked back stars. It was like a fog, but one alive, one clawing into his mouth and nose and eyes.

“Where’s Serinar?”

“What?”

“Serinar,” she repeated, each syllable stressed, pressed mockingly from her mouth. “Where is he?”

“What is - going on here?” he said. “Sabellian -”

Samia smiled a cold, mean little smile. “Seldarria won’t manage much,” she said. “She’s a bit of a dolt. And if she does manage it, well, I guess that’s just less for me to do.”

He narrowed his eyes. His heart thundered in his ears. 

“Oh, Samia, no,” he groaned. She couldn’t be -

“Where is Serinar?”

“What do you care?” He sent out his feelers beyond the earth - but nothing. He hit wall after wall. The more he reached out the smaller the room felt. A little black box, and he was trapped in the center, the walls pressed so close he could feel his quickening breath bounce back into face.

“Serinar was supposed to help me with something,” she said. “Imagine my surprise when you came down here without him.”

“He’s with my Agents. Probably still trying to recover from your father’s poisons.” His voice drawled, felt drugged.

“Tell your Agents to release him.”

Wrathion looked at her, incredulous. “Release Serinar?” He stopped. “Serinar didn’t have to convince you to come here at all, did he? The corruption overwhelmed you at the Vale.”

Samia’s face flickered with rage. For a flash he saw the shift of her eyes, all wrong like a badly tuned clock, subtle enough to be easily hidden but obvious enough to cast an uncanny pallor to her expression.

“I am not corrupt!” Her teeth flashed sharp in the dark. She rushed forward and grabbed him by the shoulder. “You know what I am? I’m my own. For the first time since Outland. My Father is a coward. Forcing us to stay in Blade’s Edge. Hiding like bugs under rocks from the Gronn. Shuffling us away from what we are. What we could be.” The earth trembled around them. Nausea roiled up his gut. Her words came quick and heated. “Never allowing us to explore our power, either over ourselves or the earth. But I’m not a coward.” She pushed her weight against him. He struggled to breathe. “I am a Black Dragon. I won’t allow my Father to deny me or my siblings that anymore. To pretend we aren’t what we are. To hide. To be forgotten and alone in a dying planet.”

The conviction in her voice -the anger, the sorrow, the frustration - felt so genuine, so real, that he knew at once this was truly her. Her thoughts, her feelings, that had festered deep inside, and what had become fuel for the corruption to gorge itself on. Here lay the feelings of the real Samia, but corrupted into the needs for those infesting her blood. 

It chilled him more than he could say. 

In Samia’s eyes he saw the madness as it was: not just garbled proclamations of murder and maliciousness, but a corruption of purpose and intent. A push into one’s most carnal futures, their most violent, chaotic roads to their wishes and wants.

It was no wonder They had so easily warped Neltharion. Earthwarder to the Destroyer. 

The fabric  _ pop-pop-popped _ as she dug her claws into it.

“So you’ll kill him? You’ll kill your father?” he barked a laugh. It trembled shaky, desperate from his lips. “You came here to save him, but here you are now, proclaiming to take his place. That doesn’t sound - oh, I don’t know, mad to you?”

She shook him hard. His head smacked against the wall. His head rang.

“I’m taking care of what my Father could not,” she hissed. Power rolled off of her. The same power from the earth, an ugly power, a dead power, unnatural. He almost gagged. “Like getting rid of  _ you.” _

“Your dear Father already took care of that.”

“No. He didn’t. He was apparently weak enough to keep you alive.”

She spoke with spite, with poison. The room writhed.

“Your brother isn’t ill at all, is he?” he wheezed. “You just said that to get us to stay here.”

Samia shrugged. “He’s sick enough. Just not with what I said with.”

Wrathion pulled at his bindings, but still: nothing. 

“You were supposed to burn into a nice crisp in the stores,” Samia said. “Whatever. An easy fix.”

“Samia,” he said, slowly, flexing his hands out as much as his bonds would allow, in however feeble a gesture of peace it was. “I know what you’re thinking. I certainly don’t know what having a family is like, but I know what caring about something is. When you met with me and I told you he was dead - I know what I saw wasn’t relief -”

“Convictions change.”

“Listen to me!” Wrathion fought back his nausea. “Why would you suddenly want to kill your Father only after you went through an explosion of Void energy?”

Her eyes flickered. She frowned at him.

“Why don’t we just… calm down... and put me down from the wall -”

“And what? Let you go? Let you go off to snitch on me, set your dogs on a new scent?”

Damnit. The hardness, the conviction, had returned to her face, all fervor and flickering anger. “Tell your Agents to release Serinar.”

“Why would I ever do that, and why would you ever want that?”

“It’s not your import to know,” Samia said. She smiled. “And you’ll want to do that because of your orc in the other room.”

A pained cry flew muffled through the stone.

Wrathion stiffened. Left. Samia studied him.

“Don’t try to bluff,” she said. “I know she’s your closest Agent. She’s pretty well named, isn’t she? Always next to your Left. Didn’t there used to be a Right?”

Another cry of pain echoed from beyond the stone. 

Wrathion bore his teeth in a snarl.

“Maybe it’d be best if we just got rid of your Left, too,” she said. “Fix up the symmetry.”

A fizzle popped: a bloodgem trying to project. But Samia had been right: the connection was broken.

“Just free Serinar. That’s all I ask,” she said. She nodded at the stone wall. “And I won’t crush her up into the walls.”

Wrathion locked his jaw. Locked his jaw so hard his head throbbed. The bloodgem-fizzle hissed again in his eyes. Left must’ve been trying to get to him. If he could hear her, then Left could hear Samia. And Wrathion knew what she wanted him to do. 

Let her die.

“Samia. You just want to free Serinar so They can have another arrow in their quiver,” he said, knowing the tinge of desperation was in his voice and uncaring. “Think. If only for a moment -”

Samia’s face twisted into a scowl, inhuman, all wrong for a person’s lips to make.

“Last chance,” she said. She started to clench her hand into a fist - slowly, agonizingly slow. A wheeze from the other side. Then coughing. Then -

“Fine! Fine! I’ll let him go!” 

Samia stilled her fingers but didn’t retract them. 

“But I can’t contact my Agents outside without -”

Samia waved a hand. Wrathion gasped. Some of the pressure in the room released, and he could breathe again. “Try now. And speak aloud your instructions. Don’t play games with me, kid.”

Wrathion breathed in deep the smell of the earth, pure and damp and living. A chance: take the moment of clarity to try to free himself. The risk: Left’s death, and possibly his own. Titans, he couldn’t even attack her. 

So Wrathion bit his tongue and did nothing.

He reached out with his mind’s eye, felt out all the pinpoints of energy. There was Left, of course, right by him, though he dared not even send her a whiff of speech lest Samia overhear. Others, far away, distant, faded stars in the darkness, those Agents beyond the Great Sea. Agents and Anduin Wrynn, lingering still in Pandaria. Had they begun to siege Orgrimmar? The thought felt alien to him now.

He blinked, and when his eyes opened, he was connected with the bloodgem of the Agent he had left in charge: a droll worgen named Yellow.

“Yes?” came her voice, ringing in his head.

“You still have Serinar?” Wrathion spoke this aloud, eyes fixed on Samia.

A pause. 

“Yes. He’s tried to escape a good handful of times.” A sigh. “Very annoying.”

“Very good. Alright. Let him go.”

He tried to sound confident. He wasn’t so sure it’d worked. His chest spasmed painfully, his nerves crackled like fire. Samia didn’t move, didn’t blink, certainly didn’t relax her curled fingers. All it would take was for her to clench them together, and Left would die.

Once, he might think it a necessary sacrifice. Free an Agent, or free a corrupt dragon? But he couldn’t lose her now. Wouldn’t.

He’d already lost enough, and he was not about to lose the last thing to a friend he had down here.

“Sir?” came Yellow’s unsure reply.

“Get rid of him,” Wrathion said. “Take him to the lava gorge in front of the mountain and let him go. We don’t need him anymore.

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think that’s the brightest idea. Did something happen down there? Are you alright?”

Samia raised an eyebrow at him. Wrathion’s throat grew dry, raspy. She could hear his Agents. He was sure of it. How?

“Fine,” she said. “I’m fine. Just let him go.”

“As you say, sir,” the worgen said, her unsureness like a smell upon her voice.

And she was gone, the connection severed, the choking, void depth of shadow consuming its place. Wrathion choked back bile. He almost fainted.

“Good making negotiations with you,” Samia said. “I guess we all find leverage, huh?” She relaxed her fist, and Wrathion relaxed in turn. Relaxed, but couldn’t breathe. The room wasn’t spinning as much as it was rotating slowly on its axis.

“Now what?” he wheezed. “Going to raze some human settlements to the ground now?”

She pat him on the cheek. Her hands were cold.

“You’re cute,” she said. “Hopefully, my father will come to his senses and step down so we don’t have to do anything rash. Maybe he can come back down for you. Probably not, though.”

Wrathion’s stomach fell, deep and sour to his ankles. “You’re leaving me down here?”

“I said I’d let your orc go. I didn’t say anything about you.”

His breath quickened. The thought of being left down here - in this void - in this dead space - “Wait! Wait. Surely I can help you? I wanted to kill Sabellian before, and -”

“Don’t lie,” she hissed. “Don’t try to weasel your way out of this. You think I’m going to give you some semblance of mercy? Please. You didn’t give my family much mercy.”

She waved a hand. The earth opened up behind her with a shudder and groan, the soil and rock writhing and trembling in the unnatural shift. The dark feeling gushed fiercer into the cavern. Wrathion struggled to keep conscious.

“Good luck,” she said. “Either you’ll starve to death or fall mad. I almost hope for the latter.”

And she smiled at him, turned, and left, earth closing up behind her and leaving her in the dark. 

 

\---

 

Sabellian quickened through the tunnels. The earth was dark, black around him like he was talking through a living shadow. The orbs around his snake spaulders cast flickering lights along the walls; itl bounced and hissed like disturbed water as he made his way through the maze of rock.

“Lightning in his eyes, you said?” he barked back toward Ebonhorn. The tauren was struggling to keep up.

“A kind of blue energy, yes.” The loose beads and bones on his headdress rattled.

Anger, hot and black, roiled deep in him. It’d been churning in his belly since Seldarria, and now it felt like he could summon a storm.

“Stupid of us to stay here,” Sabellian growled. “Stupid.”

“You’ll leave at once, then.”

“I’m certainly not going to linger, am I?” he growled. And there was the fear. It brimmed underneath the anger, stoking it like coals on a furnace. Fear not for himself - no, never for himself. Vaxian, Pyria, Samia. A fool he was, to linger for even a moment. With Wrathion he had played with a small match - this was playing with real fire now, a poison even he was not immune to. And he’d practically thrust his hand in the brazier.

Stupid.

“I fear for the others,” Ebonhorn said. Sabellian frowned. “Something must have triggered Seldarria -”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why they only just attacked now.”

“Because the Old Gods don’t want us here,” he said briskly. “They made that apparent enough when those brainless dragonkin tried to kill us.”

“But they could have killed us the moment we appeared,” Ebonhorn insisted. “Something changed.”

“Yes. They  received gentle thoughts of explosives and treachery.”  _ And so will your children. _ His heart thundered like a rabbit’s.

“Furywing, Seldarria - we should try to help them too, should we not? If the corruption is -”

“Help them?” Sabellian repeated, incredulous. “One of them tried to kill me, and I wish the other was already dead.”

Ebonhorn frowned. “The corruption  _ must  _ have awakened in them after our arrival. Don’t we owe it to them to aid?”

The fool. This tauren and the boy were made for one another, merely by their willing ignorance. “Awakened in them? It was always there. They just didn’t strike until now, when we were open and trusting.” He snorted. “And they cannot be helped. Nothing can help them now.”

Ebonhorn said nothing. His face belied his troubled thoughts: all furrowed brows and glinting eyes.

“I may sound like the boy when I say this,” Sabellian continued, “but sometimes we can’t save them all. You can’t afford to be a bleeding heart. Choose those you really care about, or you’ll lose a lot more than you gain.”

The tauren glanced sidelong at him. “Has that gotten you far?”

“Farther than most.” He thought of Nefarian and Onyxia, rotting in the pit. 

“What about you, then?” 

Sabellian glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. 

“What about me?”

“Your own corruption.”

Sabellian hesitated. Unbidden, his hand went to the pendant. It had grown hotter and hotter with each footstep.

“This was a gift from a mortal. Infused with some powerful charms, some powerful magic,” he explained, gruff. “Some sort of time-nonsense, some sort of Wild God-nonsense. It’s halted the corruption… for now. I fear it hasn’t much time left, especially in this dark place.”

Footsteps came echoing down the tunnel. The two brothers stopped. Energy tingled at his fingertips, and beside him, Ebonhorn gave off a wave of heat.

Shadows loomed around the corner: and there she was: Samia.

Sabellian relaxed. If only a little. The dragon was wild-eyed, dirt smeared over one of her cheeks, her hair peppered with gravel and dirt.

“Oh!” She came to a halt. “Father. Uncle.” She glanced at Ebonhorn. “I was looking for you.”

“What a coincidence,” Sabellian said. He looked her up and down. Relief, nausea, fear.

_ My daughter. My eldest. _

“Why?” he pressed.

“I ran into Wrathion. Seldarria tried to kill you? With an explosion? And you found the nether-drakes?”

“Keep your voice down, girl!” Sabellian closed the distance between them. “He shouldn’t have spoken to you in the first place.”

“Oh?” She frowned at him. “Why?”

He ignored her. He pressed his hands on the side of her face and looked deep into it. He looked. Looked for shattered pieces, a stone out of place, flickering lights without shadow.

“Are you alright?”

“Father.” Samia pulled away, her face creased with nerves. She fixed her bangs. “I’m fine.”

Sabellian let his hands drop. He studied her face.

“Why are you asking about me, anyway? Are  _ you _ alright? You were nearly incinerated!” She crossed her arms over her chest and bit her bottom lip. “I thought Seldarria was alright. Kind of a louse, lazy as an ass, but alright.”

And there it was.

Something in her eyes.

A flicker, a glint of light, light with no shadow.

“Vaxian. Who told you he was ill?”

Samia’s face fell. She looked at him, frown deepening. “What? No one had to. He grew ill on the flight over.”

“It was no regular infection,” Ebonhorn added. “Even if it did fool me at first.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Seldarria was infusing him with nether energy, girl. As a test subject for her eggs,” Sabellian said. An iciness grew in his belly, all sharp and stony. “The nether-drakes were captured not long before we arrived. Vaxian couldn’t have been ill before.”

Samia’s eyes darted between them. “The Dragonmaw broke his wing -”

“But you said he was ill,” Sabellian hissed. “You said he’d been ill since you arrived. With infection.” He took another step toward her.  _ My daughter. My eldest.  _ The pendant felt hot against his chest. He should have given it to her. Why hadn’t he given it to her? “Why did you tell me that? Why did you want us to delay another night?”

At last her eyes fell upon him, and in them lay the broken clock.

She lunged forward. 

He fell back. Samia’s hands wrapped ‘round his throat - no, not his throat at all.

The pendant, the crane pendant Anduin Wrynn had gifted him, the one keeping him from madness, the _ one he should have given her _ -

His hands clutched her wrists. She fixed her broken eyes on him.

They knew. They knew about the pendant. With Seldarria, a fluke. With Samia -

How? How had They known?

“This thing’s clouding your mind, Father,” she said, and her voice was deep, dark, like a thousand voices speaking through one, his daughter, his eldest. “Let me help you.”

She pulled back, despite the pull of his own wrists on her, a strength she should not have been able to overcome, but she wasn’t her now, not anymore, and the chain of the pendant came snapping off.

Blackness exploded into his mind. He gasped, stumbled back, back against what? Space was meaningless. All was black. A flood of acid, bile, tar. He fell to his knees, sucked in ragged breaths.

_ No. No! _

A foreign feeling rushed through him. Not light, not dark, but power, vaulting, righteous. It bled into the blackness, intertwining, suffocating.

It was like a storm, and he a small boat lost on its waves. He couldn’t - the pendant - Titans, They laughed at him, the terrible laughter echoing in his skull ---

 

\---

 

Sabellian fell silently onto his back; he didn’t make a sound even as he hit the ground. The pendant hummed furiously. It’d gone flying from Samia’s grip, skidding off to the side where it’d stopped near the turn of the tunnel Samia had come through.

Ebonhorn stood frozen. The pendant - had she known? -

Samia smiled at him, all good-natured and shiny.

“Pretty rough, huh, Uncle? Honestly I didn’t think he’d fall. Or go unconscious.”

He glanced back at his brother. Sabellian took in shallow gasps, and his eyes darted back and forth underneath his quivering eyelids. He grew paler by each passing heartbeat, face drawn.

Samia took slow, clipped steps toward her Father. Ebonhorn stood in front of her.

“Whatever you plan to do, I’m afraid I’ll have to stop you.”

Her eyes darted over to him. Some of the humor left her face, some of the unnatural shininess. 

“I really don’t think you want to do this,” she said. “Take a step back. This isn’t your business.”

He drew himself up to his full height. Samia was exceedingly short. Shorter than most humans he’d seen, though he hadn’t seen much. He could probably throw her if he really wanted. His shadow consumed her form, all hulk and body and broadness. He stamped his hoof. The  _ clang _ rang down the tunnel, echoed down the recesses.

“He is my brother,” he rumbled. Smoke began to curl from his nose. How good it felt to release the truth of his form in such base ways, how good not to hide. If only it were better circumstances. If only he wasn’t facing down his corrupted niece, stopping her from doing An’she-knew-what to her Father. “It is my business.”

“Listen, Uncle,” she drawled. “We all know you’re not supposed to be here. You’re more out of touch than Wrathion, and we can at least let him slide for that because he’s - what - two? Three years old? But you’re as old as Father is, and you’re more of an outsider than the kid is. Look at you. You’re probably more mortal than dragon, too. How about you leave this alone? It’s not your place. You’re not one of us.” She jerked her head over to Sabellian. “And you just met him. You don’t have to get yourself hurt over it.”

Ebonhorn glared. The words twisted in his gut, coiled like a rope of needles in his belly.

“I am one of you,” he growled. “It is my place.” He glanced at the pendant. Sabellian hadn’t moved. He needed to get it back, before the corruption consumed him too. Then they would all be lost.

But he dared not come to blows with her. How could he? This was a talking puppet. The real Samia was in there somewhere, his niece, one of him. His family he’d never known. Anger gripped his neck, and his fire bubbled.  _ Them _ . 

If he could incapacitate her, hold her in rock -

Samia sneered. “You can keep thinking that. Leave.”

The two stared at one another.

Ebonhorn lunged for the pendant. 

Samia lunged for him.

Rock smashed into his side. He skidded off, grunting, and crashed into the wall. His hoof cracked into the pendant. It went spinning off into the cave.

“Try me again, Uncle!”

He snorted smoke, thick and black. Slowly, he rose to his hooves.

“I will if I must,” he rumbled, turning to face her. “I am here on Azeroth’s wishes. And I will stay to help.” 

A sureness built inside of him. It mingled with his fire, already burning bright. All his life he had advised. He had protected. He had cleansed and read signs and found the right paths. This was what he was here for. To help. Somehow, staring into her twisted face, he knew that this was not the head of the whale. She was the fin, a first sign above the water. Something was coming. Rising. And she was the start of it. Azeroth had sent him here. For this. For whatever was to come. He didn’t know, Wrathion didn’t know, but it was their future. All of their future. 

Samia took a step forward. The future of the Flight, a future Azeroth had begun to guide them on. And he would guide the others. 

As he always had.

“There’s no audience for you, Ebonhorn,” she hissed. “You don’t have to be so inspiring for mortals here.”

“Your Father will grow corrupted. Vaxian is too, if he has not already. Pyria. You will deny this. You surely don’t see yourself as mad, either. But you don’t have to go through with whatever you’ve planned. What you all have planned. Seldarria, and Serinar, perhaps. Rethink this path. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “You won’t.” 

She thrust her hands out to her sides. The earth sprang up, spikes of obsidian.

They came flying at him - whistling, screaming.

Ebonhorn snapped his hands out. A wall of stone flung up. The shards collided, exploded against the earth. The cavern shuddered.

More and more shards came screaming toward him, each one faster, sharp, then the last. He struggled to keep up - they drove him back, slowly, inevitably, each time they struck his barriers. He grunted with strain as they crashed again and again into the defensive wards.

She was strong. Stronger than he’d guessed. Stronger - but among shadow, terrible and black. Something about the earth she weaponized felt sickly, ill; the feeling panged through his barriers, echoed through his arms like a distant sound. 

His hooves backed into the wall behind him. A quick glance back: Sabellian behind him, laying sprawled. His eyes were open now, but unseeing, blank.

Ebonhorn turned back to Samia. A black shadow emanated from her, choking the air. If they stayed here long, it would consume them all.

“You’re not giving me much choice,” he said. Samia snorted, her face twisted and broken, a dragon’s expressions on a human face.

Ebonhorn growled. He flexed his hands. The world around him came alive. Everywhere: he could see everywhere now. Each faultline, each crack in the wall; each soft patch of earth, each deposit of mineral and gem. Each air socket, each cave, the layout of the tunnels. 

Above: soft earth, cradled along dried lava. Before them, the exit of the tunnel, spitting out into the main chamber. No great faultlines to his left or right. No chance of collapse, only expansion.

Samia raised her hand. 

He lunged. 

Growing, stretching, transforming. His horns - antlers, wide and painted - scraped against the ceiling. It gave way underneath their points, all the soft earth he’d seen, opening up and falling on top of him, giving room for his true form. The great bulk of his draconic body crushed through the rest of the cavern mid-lunge. He grabbed Samia, charged forward - and exploded into the main antechamber.

They went tumbling down the small incline. A surge of energy surrounded him: Samia changing mid-fall. He landed on her hard, dragon now with dragon, their two massive forms leaving a great crack in the stone below.

She roared and kicked her hind legs into his belly. He grunted; rolled off. 

The ground groaned underneath him, and he crushed it back down before it could rise and impale him.

Samia had already gotten to her feet by the time he managed to turn around. She bared her teeth at him. 

They stared at one another, uncle and niece, as the mountain growled and rumbled around them. 

Some air pockets, some unopened caverns, peppered the antechamber: underground lava rivulets that had never pierced through the soil, and had dried up and left recesses. Trap her inside? But she would break out again, and come for him two-fold. He’d never fought another dragon, and he’d never thought he would fight one with the same powers over the earth as he had. His bloom hummed, sang with the adrenaline of battle. 

Samia approached with a hiss, shoulders hunched, smoke curling not only from her mouth but from her body.

He couldn’t hurt her.

He glanced back at the tunnel. They needed to get away. They needed to escape her; regroup. And if Sabellian fell too…

Ebonhorn turned back to Samia.

“You have a lot of skill,” he said. “I wish I could be seeing it under better circumstances.”

Samia smiled. “And I’ll be able to teach all my siblings once I take over the brood. When I bring them here. To our home.”

She thundered forward. He met her in the middle, and crashed into her with enough force to make his lungs shake. Her paws swiped into his face. Blood pooled down into his eyes. He roared, bent his head, and smashed his antlers into her neck.

Samia shrieked. She tried to jerk away, to free herself from the pinning hold, but his horns were broad, built for this, built to crash and charge and pin; they were a yoke on her neck, fixing her in place.

He pushed forward, forward, forward. Samia stumbled back, shrieking in rage. She collided with the wall. The antechamber shook with an ominous grumble.

She rose onto her back legs and swiped with her front. Pain raked across his belly. He grunted. Deep, a deep tear.

“You’re alone here, outsider!”  Samia said. “You should have stayed home!”

Earth gurgled up. It snapped around his paws, holding him in place. 

Then pain.  _ Pain _ . It exploded at the end of his tail. He roared.

A spike of obsidian had pierced straight through his tail: pinning him as he had pinned her. Blood gushed. 

A crackling appeared above his head - and there it hovered: a spike as tall as he was long, dangling above him, twisting serenely back and forth. It looked for all the world like one of the chimes hanging from the doorways of so many tauren homes.

He tried to push it away. But as soon as his mind touched that earth, bile rose in his throat. He pulled himself away.

“Uncle,” she hissed, and the spike fell.

A great form collided into him. He tumbled away. The shard cut through his side; his tail came free, the shard snapping from the root. Blood splattered red and hot.

“Furywing!” Samia’s voice shrilled, high above even the buzzing of pain in his head. He forced himself to stand. His attacker - no, savior - stood before him and Samia. The thin, whip of a dragon shook faintly. The red striations on her wings looked like dripping blood in the darkness. 

“Tell Sabellian this is for Outland,” she called back to Ebonhorn. “I hope we are even now.”

Ebonhorn didn’t wait - he had learned about hesitating with Vaxian. He turned and ran back to the cavern. Behind him, Furywing and Samia came to blows. The scape of scale on scale, the great  _ booms _ of paw smacking against flesh, reverberated through the chamber.

He thundered into the ruins of the tunnel. Mid-leap, he transformed back into his tauren guise - ignoring, as always, the rush of relief he felt as he donned the more familiar form. Now was not the time for such things.

The cavern shook. Shards of rock and dirt came falling onto his head. The place was full of dust and smoke. 

He skidded to a stop. There stood Gravel. They held Sabellian in his arms. The dragon was still limp.

Ebonhorn flared his nostrils, raised his hands warily.

“Friend or foe?”

Gravel blinked owlishly at him. “I live to serve.”

The next scream was Furywing’s. No time. They had no time. The corruption was exploding, and would consume Furywing next, and soon, he had no doubts.

“Do you know a place to hide?”

“Yes.”

Ebonhorn nodded. He looked around for -

“The pendant?” Gravel drawled. They nodded to Sabellian. There it lay, sparkling on his chest, the chain wrapped around his neck. Someone had mended it to fit securely again. 

“Who -”

“Furywing aided,” they said, monotone. “As one should. The strongest of blood is -”

“Good,” Ebonhorn said quickly. “Go to this hidden place. I will follow.”

Gravel bowed his head, turned, and headed deep into the cavern.

Ebonhorn followed - but cast one last look back, where Furywing slowly rose, belly scraping the floor.

  
  
  
  
  



	42. Chapter 42

“What is this place you’re taking us to?”

“An old place,” Gravel said. “Lord Nefarian hated its presence. Not many go down here.”

Ebonhorn frowned. If Nefarian had disliked it, then it could be a sign of purity, or lack of corruption. But could there be darker things the dragon - his brother - even shied away from? He watched Gravel’s back, pockmarked with dozens of pits and scars and burns, and wondered as to the dragonkin’s motivations. Powerful blood. And yet. His mind lingered to Samia.

“Who knows of this place?”

“Not many,” Gravel said. “It is mostly a forgotten realm. A deep place.”

Deep indeed; he did not have to be told that. He’d noticed the gentle slope of each path they had taken since fleeing the antechamber. The air grew hotter, heavier with the smell of old earth and metal, an iron-blood scent stuck in the nose. A good scent, to be sure, but all the same he could not shake the wariness from his shoulders. He could be led into a trap, down into these dark halls, and no one would be the wiser when he disappeared beyond the next slope… and now that all the rest had turned, who could he trust? 

But Gravel still had Sabellian in their arms, and though they could reach down, easy as picking an apple, and snap his neck with one of their great clawed hands, they did not. It was as if they didn’t notice the dragon they were holding: their eyes swept back in forth in lazy, but intent glances as they led the way to this forgotten realm.

At least it felt nice to trust someone now, when it felt, for the first time, the earth around him exuded evil.  _ A thousand watching eyes _ . 

He glanced down at his brother. Sabellian hadn’t woken, let alone moved. It was almost a blessing; what could they expect when he did wake? The pendant had been glowing and hissing like hot metal in water since they had clasped it back on the dragon’s neck, and he could only hope they had stopped it in time. He did not want to fight another family member - and already wounded, no less. Already they had to stop so he could wrap his tail. The spike had ripped a tear through the flesh, but it had ripped cleanly, at least: no jagged pieces of meat or gristle clung to his hands as he pulled the bandages around it.

It would leave a divot once healed. A small price for such consequences. At least his other wounds had already begun to scab over, though the slash across his brow itched like fire.

Gravel stopped. How long they had been walking, he couldn’t say. Hours? 

The path they’d been following ended before them in a pitch of darkness. The earth hunched close to them on all sides - so much so the dragonkin had to duck, and even then Ebonhorn was pressed for space. The cavern was quiet and still and black.

“Careful,” Gravel said. “Heave back on your feet, master.”

For a terrible moment, he thought Gravel spoke to someone in the darkness. But no - master. Such was his title, and all because of his blood. Discomforted, the only thing he could think to do was nod.

The dragonkin grunted as he shifted his weight back onto his heels. He started down into the darkness - the pitch of darkness which was a sudden and steep incline. Ebonhorn pinned his ears back and hurried to look down as the dragonkin disappeared from view below the ground.

He peered down. Earthmother! The incline was a near vertical angle. Gravel was almost halfway down; the dragonkin’s paws dug into the earth, and one shoulder lay pressed against the side for extra stability. Each step was a torture to watch, as he was sure the oversized creature could topple at any moment, and Sabellian with them.

“You’re certain this is a safe way?” His voice carried down the incline. Distant blue light sighed into vague, glowing swirls deep at the end of the tunnel before disappearing. Cave mushrooms? 

“Yes,” Gravel said, their voice already far away, and then they disappeared into the dark, from where the lights had come.

Ebonhorn sighed. At least the chokehold would bar any surprise attack from the outside. He rubbed the cut on his forehead. Scab crumbled away at his touch. He smeared some blood across his nose.

_ Alright _ .

He planted his hooves firmly on the ground and descended.

At once, he realized his size was both a blessing and a curse for the tunnel. Gravity pulled down at him hard and heavy, but blessedly his broad shoulders pressed up against the walls of the tunnel as Gravel’s had, giving him stability for the decline. All the same he was careful, eyes fixed on the ground as he picked his way down.

Thank An’she he could see in the dark.

At last he made it to the end of the incline. He braced himself at the edge, hands firmly planted on the side of the walls, and stuck his head, warily, out of the new opening.

The tunnel leveled out and spread into the dark. The glow he’d seen before emanated from the center of what he sensed was a giant antechamber, though smaller than than the one they had fled. His eyes adjusted with a couple of blinks. 

“Ah,” he rumbled. He could see at once the lack of allure from Nefarian.

It was a cave lake. Stalagmites and stalactites grew in sweeping ripples along the ceiling and floor. The height of the ceiling dipped up and down, as if a great breeze had come swirling in and shaped the place with its bumps and swirls. In some places, even a human would be hardpressed to stand; in others, Ebonhorn could spread his wings in his true form. 

Many of the spikes had been worn away or cut or toppled, and in some areas there lay swathes of free ground to walk and sit without things to trip and stumble on. There seemed to be no end to the chamber that he could see. 

And the lake… yes, the glow. No cave mushrooms: algae. It grew near the shore, a pale, ghostly blue, and lit and glowed in quiet, subtle movements as Gravel sat Sabellian down nearby. 

It was cool here. The water could have run from the more fertile lands to the east, collecting for miles in an underwater river until it fell here in this still, quiet place. He could have been in one of the underground lakes in Highmountain if he hadn’t known what lingered above.

“This is beautiful,” he said. 

Gravel blinked. He’d set Sabellian against one of the broken stalagmites; the dragon’s head lolled against his shoulder. 

“Hmm,” they said, and turned to sit on a nearby boulder.

Ebonhorn took one last look around.  _ Thank you _ , he called out to Azeroth, and with a renewed freshness in his stride, made his way to his brother. 

The dragon’s face was still pale, his face still slack. Ebonhorn felt at his forehead. Hot, at least. He glanced back at the entrance. The light from the lake was gentle, but in the blackness from before, might have well have been a beacon to the outside. If he hadn’t just come from the tunnel, he would have worried it would attract attention.

But they were safe. For now.

He rose, knees aching.  _ Yes, for now. But then what awaits us? _ Those controlling Samia and the others would not be pleased to be out-maneuvered. They would hunt them down, and there was Gravel to consider. He wanted badly to trust the dragonkin - and yet. 

He ghosted his fingers over his side: the place where the obsidian shard had nearly sliced through his body.  _ Furywing. _ She had distracted Samia for them - for forgiveness - Outland. A story he did not know, but a story he might not ever get. She’d been taken too.

And Wrathion -

He cringed, pinned his ears back so hard it strained the cut on his forehead. Samia had said she’d spoken to him before she’d found them. A bluff? Or had she taken care of him too?

“Gravel. Do you have any allies… like you?”

Their second eye-lid slid over their eyes. “Could be,” they said, and unsheathed the axe from their back. They pulled a polishing rock from a bag at their side and began to make slow, practiced circles along the edge. 

“If we can have them look for Wrathion - if you could contact them -”

“I can try,” they said, in the same blank, distant voice they’d used since meeting them. 

Ebonhorn nodded his thanks and turned away. The question haunting him before pulsed in his forehead as he took a seat to rewrap his tail.

_ What awaits us now? _

 

\---

Fuck. Shit. 

Left struggled against her bindings. Fuck! It’d been too long! She should have gotten free by now.

She growled and glanced at the wall separating her from Wrathion.

Samia had left; she knew that much. The dragon’s voice had stopped, and so had Wrathion’s. Left didn’t like that. He wasn’t dead, no - the bloodgem connection was still there, albeit broken, like something had taken one of its antennas and corkscrewed it into a new direction.

_ Ugh! _ This would have never happened if that idiot dragon had allowed them to make a damn perimeter. Some kind of added protection. But no. Of course not. Why in the world would they do anything smart down here?

The orc dug her fingers against the rock and pushed. The hold had been much tighter before, so tight she couldn’t breathe, but it’d loosened when Samia had gone. Loosened, but not entirely. The shatter-marks she’d spotted on the side were turning out to be the greatest points of weakness, and thankfully she’d been pinned to the wall with her legs still able to touch the ground, giving her added leverage. 

She bent her knees and placed her soles flat against the wall, then pushed, snarling. The shatter-marks spread. Slowly. Too slowly. How long had it been? She roared and pushed. Her legs burned. 

The rock groaned. Bits of it fell from the cracks.

Again she roared and slammed her chest forward with all her strength, springboarded her heels against the wall with every ounce she had left in her.

The rock gave way. It exploded from the wall, and her along with it, her momentum taking her face-first into the floor.

She allowed herself a breath before she sprung up and hurried to the slab where Wrathion lay trapped behind.

“Wrathion!” she called. “I’m free. Are you injured?”

No answer. She scowled and pulled away. She looked around, searching for any shatter-marks. Dirt and crust covered the slab, but no marks to expose.

It was impossible to get inside unless she started digging around, and she had no tools or explosives for that. 

Though she did have  _ some  _ things - some things a rogue would be stupid not to have on their person at all time. She rifled through her bag, eyes fixed on the slab, relying on touch alone to make sure she had the elixir. Yes - there. The long, cold one. She eyed the rock.

Yes, it would work. But she needed more than just one person to break it open. They’d left a handle of minor agents in various chambers, but she had no way of contacting them now that the bloodgem connection had been broken. As commander, she’d be able to spot them amongst the shadows, but it meant leaving Wrathion and going to search for them in territory crawling with enemies. 

She didn’t have much choice.

“I’ll be right back,” she called. “I need to get back-up.”

Again, no one answered. She hissed and smacked her palm on the rock before she turned and sprinted from the cave.

_ Stupid. Stupid. _ Her chest ached with each step. This shouldn’t have happened.  _ He should have let me die. _

What had he been thinking? Letting Serinar go just so she could live? It’d been a green mistake to allow Wrathion get farther ahead of her so Samia could separate them, and she should have paid for it with her life. That was the rogue’s life. You messed up, and you died. Especially if you were a rogue who had pledged your life to protect someone, and that  _ someone _ should have let you  _ die _ rather than unleash a terrible enemy upon them.

She wiped dirt and sweat from her brow. They could talk about that later. Deal with it later. Now, she needed to focus on making sure there was a later.

Left slowed as she approached the antechamber. Shadows had long since surrounded her as she’d run, and she was just another flickering piece of darkness in the caves. 

She peered out. Empty.

But not of clues. New marks gouged along the ground. Pits of earth were missing. Rock walls lay shattered. And blood. Lots of it, and fresh. 

Sabellian and Seldarria? She edged forward. No smell of death, just blood and earth and fire. A quick glance gave nothing else away. 

This did not bode well.

Left moved into the chamber. No ripples showed in the shadows: no Blacktalons. She cursed to herself and looked again, then again, then again. 

Nothing.

Damn all this. Killed? Fled to safety? Went to find help outside the mountain?

Voices. Distant. 

Left swept up against the wall and blended in with the darkness. 

“Where did they go?” Samia. Left’s skin prickled. Forms shifted in the cave across from her. It was too dark even for her to make them out, though they were big enough to be dragons. Two of them.

“I didn’t see.” The other dragon, quieter, huskier. Furywing, the dragon with the odd markings on her wings.

“Seldarria won’t be of help for a while,” Samia said. 

_ Sabellian’s doing? _

“Just find the Dragonkin. We can’t afford to lose a lot of them.” Samia sounded distant now, and Furywing so much so that Left could not understand her reply.

The forms disappeared deeper into the cave. Left waited for a beat. She pulled back from the wall when she was sure she was alone.

Interesting, but nothing that could help her.

What would help her were the Agents. The elixir would erode enough of the slab, but - 

Something grumbled up behind her.

Left swung around and aimed her crossbow.

At a bear.

She huffed. Misha. She lowered the point of her weapon, but kept it cocked. The feather of the arrow brushed against her arm. 

“You’re alone,” she said, quiet, very quiet. She squinted past the bear. “Where is your master?”

Rexxar. Hero of the Horde. And apparent friend to the lizard who’d murdered Right and multiple other loyal Agents. It’d lowered her opinions on him, though all for the better; orcish hero worship wasn’t very practical to a rogue.

Misha moved back and lumbered away into the cavern nearby.

She hesitated for a moment before following. She kept her crossbow high and aimed. 

Misha was already halfway down the cavern. Left followed. The tunnel was cramped, far smaller than any of the others she had navigated in the time she’d had.  _ Not enough time _ . All of this had moved too fast. Fast even for her and her team.  _ Probably dead, them. _

They moved into an area where the rock swelled out, giving enough room to breathe and move, though not by much. Misha gave a sigh - relief? an odd animal she was - and moved around the curve: a cave, she realized, hollowed against the wall. 

Rexxar was waiting for her.

The half-orc sat against the wall as he sharpened one of his axes. He didn’t look up.

“What happened out there?” Left asked. She lowered her crossbow at last. Rexxar wasn’t an enemy - not really - and he gave no warnings as to ill intent. 

The beast-master glanced at Misha. He swung his axe along his back and stood.

“Samia and Ebonhorn,” he said. His voice was heavy, a dull grind. “He got away. With the Baron.”

Left blew out a rush of air. “My Agents?”

“I don’t know.”

“Fine. Then come with me. I need your help.”

Rexxar studied her. It was hard to read his expressions when he had his mask on. It was usually an easy thing to read someone’s intentions in their eyes, but she wasn’t afforded such a thing with him.

“Alright,” he said gruffly. “Lead the way.”

She hurried back the way she had come. Rexxar followed, footsteps heavier than hers but somehow, just as quiet. Good. If Samia or the others came back, she didn’t want to deal with a beacon of attention.

“You didn’t ask me what I need help with,” she threw back as she crept up to the exit of the cavern mouth. 

“It’s the boy.”

She frowned and glanced at him. Ancestors, he was tall.  _ She _ was tall, but the half-orc … standing so close to him, she could remember what other half he was made of. “How did you know that?”

He wasn’t looking at her: his eyes were trained on the antechamber, same as hers had been a beat before. Misha trudged up next to him and nudged his hand. 

If Rexxar made little noise, Misha made none at all.

“You never leave his side. If you need help, it must be for him.”

Well. At least someone else down here had some sort of logic. If only his “friend” had had that too.

Misha growled softly. Then Left saw them: Dragonkin. They were the centaur-like creatures, and only three. They said no words she could understand, just hisses and growls that followed them as they passed by. 

They hadn’t been noticed. 

The party didn’t move until the dragonkin disappeared into one of the tunnels. Left inched forward. 

“Hold,” Rexxar said. Misha walked past them to take the lead. She pointed her nose up. 

The beast-master nodded toward her, and Left, with a small sigh, went after the bear.

“You put a lot of trust into beasts.”

“So do you.”

“What?”

“The whelp.”

“He isn’t a beast.”

Rexxar shrugged. Left eyed him.

“I mean no slight,” the Beast-master said. He moved his head a little as they passed the blood-stains. A muscle in his neck tightened. “I only wondered about you.”

“Me.” Left kept the conversation at the back of her head as they made their way back to the entrance of the path leading to Wrathion. Some dirt at the front was disturbed. 

“How an orc could come to be a bodyguard for a black dragon.”

“I was looking for work. He hired me.” She waved Misha inside the path. Their quiet march began again. Those dragonkin looked to be on patrol. She recalled all of them in the higher recesses of the mountain. Bad numbers for them. Bad. “Does this matter? Why are you asking?”

A shrug. “Don’t see much orcs working outside the Horde.”

Her skin prickled. “There’s more to being an orc than being a part of the Horde.” She tried not to look back at him. “I think that you of all people would understand.”

“Again, I mean no slight. Sabellian says I am blunt, sometimes. I only share what I see.”

She couldn’t help but look back at him, then, at his mask. How could he see anything behind that? “The Horde doesn’t have anything to offer me,” she said, and looked away to pick a quiet route around a path of gravel.

“No. They haven’t for me, either.” A pause. “And this new Horde the least of all.”

Left grunted. “Just another Horde. And this one will come and go until the next warchief leads the orcs into more violence. And more will die.” She soured. “ _ Lok’tar ogar  _ means nothing if there’s no one left to celebrate the victory.”

Rexxar made a low noise. In agreement?

“We do have some things in common,” he said. “I wondered.”

“You helped make the Horde,” she shot back at him. She was getting distracted; she hadn’t thought he’d bring something like this up. Something  _ she _ never brought up. Ancestors, half of the reason she’d signed onto Wrathion’s work at first was because he asked no questions. And here was the Champion of the Horde, someone she’d idolized as a child and who she’d always thought to be - “I always thought you were a warmonger like the rest.” Someone who iconized the Horde’s bloodlust, the bloodlust and needless death she’d grown distasteful of in her younger years. 

“I fight to protect. Not for the blood.”

No: maybe no orcish icon. 

“And now we fight for dragons.”

Rexxar chuckled. “Well, we fight to protect friends, too. Even those with scales - like beasts.”

“I don’t think you should call them beasts in front of their faces.”

“No, maybe not.”

Rexxar stopped. He held a hand out the same moment Left did. They glanced at one another. A nod forward told her enough: they’d both sensed movement ahead.

Rexxar unsheathed his bow. Left melded back into the darkness. She crept forward, down the hall, along the curve.

Two dragonkin stood admiring the slab where Wrathion lay trapped behind. They were speaking in low, gurgling hisses: draconic, but in an accent unknown to her, all scratchy and slurring.

Guards? It didn’t matter. Left slid behind one, took out her dagger, and neatly slit its throat.

It gurgled, its eyes bulging. Blood spurted from its neck. It grabbed at it, scrabbling with its claws. 

Then it slid back and fell on its face.

The companion roared and scuttled back. It blindly swung around. Left jerked back from its sword.

The dragonkin stiffened. It gave a grunt, and collapsed. An arrow shaft stuck from its back, so deep the point stuck out from the chest.

Rexxar stalked into the room and swung his bow back along his shoulders. His eyes were already fixed on the slab. Behind him, Misha lumbered forward and sniffed at the corpses.

“Difficult,” the Beastmaster said, “but doable.” He whistled. Misha trotted forward, the dead forgotten.

Left join them. She swept her hand along the slab - smooth - and rifled through her bag again. Yes, there it was, at the crease along the bottom. She pulled it out and held it aloft; a thin piece of glass, cold along her fingertips, filled with chill-blue.

“Stand back,” she said, and just as he moved out of the way, she threw the vial at the rock.

It shattered. The liquid splattered along the rock and ground. It hissed and smoked. The smell of sulfur sprang up among them, rich and thick and cloying in the throat and noise. She pushed her wrist up against her face.

The slab groaned, deep in its core. Acrid smoke fumed.

Misha sneezed.

When Left waved away the smoke with her free hand, she was pleased to see the toxin had done its job: a scar lay in a blood splatter-like pattern, large and pale. It’d eaten away almost half a foot deep.

She ran a hand over the rock. Dry. Left dropped her hand from her mouth, turned, and smashed her shoulder against it.

A little more give. But not enough.

Without waiting to be asked, Rexxar was there, next to her. A grunt to her other side, and yes, there was Misha, too, up on her two legs and two massive paws placed steady on the slab. 

The two orcs locked eyes and nodded. They braced their shoulders against the rock. 

The rock stood little chance this time. It cracked and groaned as they smashed the might of their weight against it. Pebbles fell on her. The slab  _ chu-shunked _ around them.

A rush of air - and the rock at last gave way. Left stumbled back as it collapsed inward with a crash which rattled her knees.

Black, choking air rushed out.

She tripped back and hurried to cover her face. It went screaming past her, oil against her skin, and was gone, fast as it had come. She could breathe.

“Cursed,” Rexxar muttered. Misha made a low noise in the back of her throat. 

She didn’t care. No, she cared, but not for her, for -

“Wrathion?” She rushed inside, fast as the smoke. “My Prince?”

There - on the wall. Wrathion lay pinned to it, torso cocooned with clay, similar to how she had been trapped. His head hung to his chest.

She cursed and hurried toward him. Soon as a snap she was scrabbling at the rock. It stuck to her hands like putty, despite looking like solid rock.

But she could at least pull it away easily. She grabbed fistfuls of it and tore it away like great rolls of gnomish taffy.

No - taffy was too jovial a word. 

Mold. It was like mold. The rock had  _ molded _ , and the unnaturalness of it, and the  _ smell _ \- a smell she could only describe as the scent of dread - set her even more in a frenzy to get Wrathion out of it.

At last she dug enough out, and Wrathion toppled from the wall. She caught him. He was pale-cold in her arms, and his breathing came in gulps. 

Again, Rexxar was there. He extended his arms. She heaved Wrathion in his hold; he might have well have been a dwarf in comparison.

An absurd thought. She put her ear to his chest.

_ Thunk thunk. _

Even, healthy. She pulled away and grabbed at his face. Cold, drawn. She shook him lightly.

“Wrathion.”

Nothing. Misha sniffed his hand, hanging down, and licked it. Nothing. Left slapped him lightly. Nothing.

“We were  _ just  _ talking about your penchant for bad luck,” she said to him as she shuffled again through her pouch. 

Oh, that would do. 

She pulled out a thumb-sized bottle and popped off the cork. She pushed it under Wrathion’s nose.

He jerked up with a gasp and dug in his nails into Rexxar’s skin. The half-orc didn’t flinch. He glanced at Left with wild, flickering eyes.

“What - Left - I - what was that?” 

He couldn’t focus his gaze on her: he glanced back and forth, around. Not blindly, but as if there zipped bugs she couldn’t see.

She put away the vial and tried to get the dragon’s attention with a quick wave of her hand.

“Wrathion. Sir. You’re safe.”

His fixed his gaze on her.

“Left,” he breathed, “is this real?”

Left opened her mouth, but a roar, distant, interrupted her. All three looked up. 

They didn’t have time to center him from whatever darkness Samia had inflicted - though she had some ideas what. She looked up at Rexxar. “Can you track Ebonhorn? They had to hide somewhere.”

The half-orc nodded. He lowered Wrathion to his feet, but as the ex-Prince’s boots hit the ground, he transformed into a whelp. He slipped up to crouch on Left’s shoulders and hooked his claws into her leather.

“Go. Anywhere but this cave!” he hissed against her ear.

“We can escape the mountain, sir.”

A long, tantalized pause. Then he shook his head. “I am not going to run away.”

Another roar, closer.

“I think they know I escaped,” Wrathion weakly supplied.

“This way,” Rexxar said, and led them into the dark. 

 

\---

 

Dark. So dark.

This didn’t feel like death. And he was sure death wouldn’t allow him to think. He almost wished he was dead. Such a thoughtless rest would be welcome after … after…

After…

He struggled to remember. Blackness, laughter, and then a terrible light, but a scorching light, a driving light. It’d saved him. But Titans, it’d taken a lot from him.

He reached out tentatively, but did not see his own hand before him. It was not like he was in the dark, he realized. Just a kind of voice.

“Samia,” he croaked. His heart sank. Vaxian, Pyria. Talsian… 

Light flickered around him. Familiar to him, but wary, as it had felt before in dreams.

It was warm, and cold, and - everything. Indescribable.

“No,” he groaned, his voice raw, cracking. “No. Don’t help me. Help them. My children. Not me!”

Melancholy surrounded him. Visions of dark jungles flickered in his mind’s eye.

“You could have saved them,” he snarled weakly. “Why did you save me?”

The images of vines blocking the way hovered again.

He struck out in anger. His hand collided with something. 

The world collapsed around him. Solid ground - behind him. Clear, cool air on his face.

A form pushed away from him, grunting in pain. Sabellian jerked up. Sitting. He was sitting. 

Along a lake?

Ebonhorn backed away, rubbing his nose - but when he looked down at him, his ears perked up.

“Sabellian. Thank the Earthmother you -”

“Samia? Where’s Samia? Where are we?”

The pendant. He scrabbled for it at his neck. There. Hot against his palm. It hummed.

“Samia… she’s still in the mountain, as far as I know.” The tauren’s eyes said everything else. So did his wounds, not quite healed.

Sabellian leaned against the back of his hands. Mind blank.

“Where did you take me?” His voice sounded dead and istant. The edges of his vision grew hazy, as if it were unraveling, as if someone had found the string of his last thread of patience and was pulling it, unraveling the world around him with alarming speed. But he couldn’t find it in him to care.

“An ancient place,” Ebonhorn said. “Deeper in the mountain, far below.” He tried to catch Sabellian’s eye. “Are you… well? The pendant was not gone from you for long. And yet…”

Sabellian brushed his fingertips over the pendant. He kept his eyes fixed on the lake. 

“I’m fine,” he said. “Your Earthmother saved me.”

Ebonhorn stiffened, straightened up. “What?”

_ It doesn’t matter. _ He stood. “She should have saved Samia,” he said hoarsely. “The others.” He walked past the tauren. “Leave me.” 

He stopped at the edge of the lake, a blink away from the water. Everything lay gray and dull before him, a waxy slackness to it, a false image of the real thing. He felt like he could reach out and pull away everything like wet paint on canvas, and he would be in the void again. It would have been preferable to this.

He felt so old.

Movement shifted behind him. Ebonhorn, still lingering. “Sabellian. There’s still much we can do. Our family -”

“Is lost,” he said. “As it always has been.” He glanced back at the tauren, then looked away. “ _ Leave me _ .”

A pause -- and crunching of hooves a beat later, heading back up to the recesses of the cavern.

Sabellian sat; he no longer had the energy to stand. 

He bent his face into his hand and wept.

  
  


\---

  
  


“Down  _ there _ ?” Wrathion peeked down the passage. It was so steep it might as well have been a drop. The other side was shrouded in darkness.

Rexxar nodded. “The tracks lead down here, and Misha’s nose is never wrong.”

Wrathion grumbled. Left glanced at him. The bloodgems hadn’t worked since Samia’s interference, but he still understood her glances and quiet noises. He sighed and nodded at her. What other choice did they have?

“Send your bear first,” Left said.

Rexxar shrugged and whistled. Misha trotted up. She glanced down at the passage and sighed. The half-orc gave her a pat, and only then did she start descending.

She quickly disappeared down the slope.

A pause.

A roar called back up the tunnel. A bear’s roar. Rexxar looked down at them.

“It’s safe.”

“Do you speak bear?” he asked before thinking. He didn’t feel  _ right _ , yet, after the cave. 

_ The cave. _ He couldn’t think about that. He hadn’t been there long… or had he? Time had moved fast, slow; it hadn’t moved at all. 

And the blackness. The darkness, the cloying corruption. It’d seeped inside, cutting him off further and further from the outside, from the earth, from his very thoughts - all that had made him him. To describe it was to describe a slow death.

If Left had been too slow -

He shuddered and pushed such thoughts away. 

Rexxar blinked at him. “Yes,” he said, then turned and began down the passage.

It took some time for them to get down - mostly because Rexxar had trouble getting through the squat tunnel, whose sides were as thin as the Beastmaster’s shoulders were wide.

When they all got down, someone was waiting for them. 

“Gravel?” Wrathion snaked to perch on Left’s other shoulder.

The dragonkin blinked at him. They were standing next to the entrance, and set down the axe in their hands. 

“Hello.”

The cavern certainly was a change of scenery. Relief sank like a rock into his belly. It was water, and light, and glowing, and arid. If they had to be in another cave of darkness -

He loathed this. So little time in this mountain, and he was already shying away from what had always comforted him: the earth. 

Oh! There was Ebonhorn, coming toward them. And there was Sabellian, sitting on the shore of the lake, still as slate. 

“Wrathion!” Ebonhorn smiled at him. “Praise the Earthmother. I’m glad you were able to find us.”

“What happened to  _ you _ ?” He glanced at the gauze ‘round the tauren’s tail, at the cuts along his fur.

“Oh. Samia.” Ebonhorn cast a glance at Sabellian. Something in the look felt nervous. The other dragon hadn’t moved yet.

“Mmm. Yes, us, too, I’m afraid.”

“At least we’re still alive,” Ebonhorn said. He nodded to Gravel. “They led us here. I believe we can trust them.” The tauren met his eyes.  _ But for how long? _

Wrathion eyed the dragonkin. 

“If you’re a Dragonkin, how can we trust you to be here? You might go mad like all the others,” Left butt in.

Gravel raised their axe and smashed the butt of it down on the stone.

“I follow the old blood,” they rumbled. “I am bound to those of Neltharion’s line.”

Interesting. This Gravel character felt different than the other Dragonkin. Some other creation Lord Victor Nefarius had left behind. A personal servant or guard? To be tied so tightly to the blood of Deathwing - hm. Interesting indeed.

“We’ll have to trust them for now,” Ebonhorn rumbled.

“Oh, yes, like we trusted Samia!” But his heart wasn’t in it, and he deflated against Left’s shoulder. “How bad of a situation are we in?”

Ebonhorn waved them away from the entrance and toward the shore. 

“All the dragons have been corrupted,” the tauren said. He sighed. “And Sabellian discovered Seldarria was using something called…  _ nether _ -energy on a clutch -”

“I knew it!”

Ebonhorn cocked his head. “She infused it in Vaxian to test it. It was why he was ill.”

_ That, unexpected.  _ “And what does Sabellian think of all this?” He slid his eyes over to the elder dragon. He still hadn’t moved.

“He has not been taking it well,” the tauren rumbled. “But first: what happened with you?”

“Oh. Samia tried to get  _ rid _ of me.” He flexed his claws. “As she apparently tried to get rid of you.”

“And Serinar has escaped for it,” Left said. Her voice was blunt but rounded with a blade, steel on stone. Wrathion winced. Was she angry with him? No, unlike her. But they hadn’t spoken about the deal Samia had pushed on him. Left for Serinar. 

Ebonhorn frowned. “The dragon you captured? How?”

“I don’t know. Our Agents just contacted us.”

Wrathion managed to hide his surprise. Ebonhorn only nodded.

“It’s just another thorn,” the shaman said. He sighed and sat on a boulder. It looked to have once been a stalagmite whose spike had been sliced off. “The problem now is how to best pluck them from our hides.”

Again, he wandered his gaze to Sabellian. Distant as he was, he could make out his blank, unseeing stare.

“We should leave him be for now,” Ebonhorn said quietly. 

“We should have him locked up somewhere,” Wrathion muttered. “If the others turned, he’s most  _ certainly _ going to.” He shifted along Left’s shoulders. “If he goes mad, we might as well drown ourselves in the lake.”

Ebonhorn tilted his head. “The pendant he wears stalls the madness.”

“Pendant?”

“The one he wears. The crane.” He held his hand to his chest, as if he himself wore it there. “Samia tore it from him in the tunnels. I know little of our enemy, but I cannot think that they are pleased Sabellian walks free.”

Pendant? The one he had seen him wear last night? 

_ Where could he get such a priceless artifact? _

_ And why didn’t he share it with me? _

“You seem surprised.”

“He didn’t tell me that,” Wrathion said, unable to keep the annoyance from his voice.

“I was told,” Rexxar said.

“Well no one asked you,” he snapped. He shook his wings out. 

“At least it’s something we don’t need to worry over,” Ebonhorn hurried. “What we should worry over is what we are going to do bout the dragons upstairs.”

“They’ll come for us,” Left said. “I heard them planning to search.”

“Azeroth knew something was about to happen,” Wrathion said. He met Ebonhorn’s eyes. “Your vision.”

He nodded. “Has come true.”

Surrounded by enemies. It wasn’t something he was unused to. 

But this… the darkness, the corruption of will - the things that had shaped his life before he’d hatched, what he’d tried to correct the moment he crawled from his egg -

It was not fear curdling in his belly.

It was anger.

“We have the soul of the  _ world _ on our side,” he said. “I will not run away. Whatever awaits us… our combined strength will force fate on  _ our _ side.”

It felt so good to speak like this again. To speak with confidence. With righteousness

Ebonhorn stomped his hoof. The  _ clang _ echoed through the lake; the water winked near the shore. “Yes. For whatever comes.”

_ But what can we do? What can we expect? _

Wrathion knew how mortals worked; how he could pull strings to make people angry or happy at one another, how he could play alliances and rivalries against one another, how he could instill fear or courage. Such tactics… they felt rusty now, clinking like old gears in his mind. But the more they spun the more the rust came falling away.

No, he didn’t know what to do with this enemy. He didn’t know them upfront; had never seen the blackness of their eyes beyond the wrongness in Samia and Fahrad’s. These were ancient beings under his feet. 

_ Am I mad to think so grandly? _

Should they kill those corrupted, as he had before? No. Azeroth had expressed her displease of the Hammer, and the killing would not accomplish much in the end. And they were two to seven in terms of capable fighting dragons. Even if they had Blacktalons on their side, it wouldn’t be enough.

His eyes drifted to Sabellian.

_ Three spheres. _

“I know,” Ebonhorn said. “She saved him after Samia took the pendant from his neck.”

Wrathion raised his eyebrows. For a moment he almost felt jealous. Azeroth was supposed to be his.

And yet…

“Let me speak with him,” Wrathion said. “Alone.”

 

\---

 

Sabellian did not react as Wrathion approached him on the shore.

It was hard to read the dragon’s expression: he seemed to have no expression at all. His face was lax, his eyelids drooped, his lips a vague frown. He looked far away.

Wrathion took a seat close by. Not close enough to infringe on the dragon’s space, but close enough to create conversation.

They sat in silence. Every once in awhile the cavern would give a low, distant groan, ever-alive despite the stillness around him.

“I suppose you were right all along, boy.”

Sabellian didn’t move. He didn’t turn his head. If Wrathion hadn’t seen the dragon’s lips move he would have thought it his imagination.

“I usually am, in the end,” Wrathion said as he eyed his uncle warily. “What was I right about this time?”

“Killing us.”

Wrathion stiffened. “I - what?”

Sabellian smiled a cold, dead smile.

“Better to be dead than monsters.” His smile faded, and his expression again blank and distant. Wrathion wasn’t sure which one he preferred: both were terribly unnerving.

He shifted his weight, stalling. Of all the ways for this to go, he had not counted on this. He had to be careful with what he said.

_ Strange _ , he thought.  _ I would have been celebrating such an admission a month ago. _

“At this very moment, you’re not a monster,” he said. He plucked his words like herbs. How frustrating. Couldn’t Sabellian had admitted this that month before? This would have been so much easier.

_ Have I really changed so much?  _ A bad thing. A good thing? Was he becoming too lenient, too pliable?

_ No. _

Sabellian slowly slid his eyes toward him.

“The moment I took off this pendant, I would be.” He grabbed at where it hung on his neck, and for a terrible moment Wrathion thought he was going to pull it free. But the dragon only sighed, dropped the pendant, and looked back at the lake.

Wrathion glanced at the artifact. It was beautiful, in an eerie sort of way. The crane’s eye stared far beyond, an azure stone aglow in the dark, and the white of its feathers shone too shiny for any common stone.

“You know, if I had known you had an artifact to keep you from going mad, I would have felt much better.”

Sabellian said nothing.

“Where did you get it?”

“The prince. Anduin Wrynn.”

Wrathion stopped himself from gawking. 

He knew at one he should not be as surprised as he was. And yet he felt betrayed somehow. Anduin hadn’t even told him?

“Quite a favor,” Wrathion said at last.

“Mmm. A strange boy.”

“Chi-ji blessed it, I take it?”

A shrug.

“I would have thought your good friend the tiger would shield you instead.”

Sabellian said nothing.

Wrathion bit his bottom lip and looked out at the lake. It was translucent. Soft black earth lay on the bottom, peppered with great chunks of obsidian. His reflection stared back at him, vague and ghostly along the glass-like surface. It made him look like his face came from the black silt, and when he glanced at Sabellian’s, he saw the same.

“What do you want to do?”

His voice was quiet - almost conspiratorial.

Sabellian exhaled.

“There’s not much we can do,” he said, and in his voice dredged resignment, a hopelessness.

“Samia and the others -”

“Can’t be helped,” Sabellian said. “They are lost, like all the rest.”

Wrathion stared at him, disbelieving.

“That’s it, then? You’re just going to abandon them to madness?”

“The Old Gods know they will lose us if we retreat to Outland,” Sabellian said. “They will never let Samia and the others even consider going a hundred miles of the Dark Portal. And unless you can summon an army, we won’t be able to capture them and bring them home.”

“I - well -” Wrathion glanced over his shoulder at Ebonhorn. The tauren stood far enough away that he wasn’t able to hear them. He gestured toward Sabellian with a puzzled look; Wrathion shrugged helplessly.

“What about the drake you first came here with? The male? He went mad, didn’t he? What did you do with him?”

“I killed him.”

He must have misheard that. “Who killed him?”

“I did,” Sabellian said. “I took his neck in my jaws and snapped it.”

“You…  _ killed _ your son?” 

“Yes.” Sabellian looked at him. “Like I said: better to be dead than to be a monster.” And he looked away.

Wrathion didn’t know what to say. Let alone  _ think _ . All this time, Sabellian had tried to kill  _ him _ for killing the children. And -

“I know,” the elder dragon said. “How could I do such a thing, when I maimed and mauled you for the very crime I committed?” There was the dead, cold smile again. “I’ve just been delaying the inevitable, boy. That is all. In my mind, my children had so much more time. And you…  _ taking _ that time away from them… no, I could never forgive that.” He sighed. “But they don’t have time. None of us do. What is it to kill them now, versus kill them in a year, or five, or ten?”

“I don’t understand,” Wrathion said. The absurdity of this was overwhelming. Suddenly he was the fool saying the dragon wasn’t a monster, and Sabellian was the one proclaiming the murders acceptable? Had he really gone mad in the cave? Frustration itched at his shoulderblades. “Are you  _ really  _ suggesting that we -”

“Yes.” Sabellian sighed again, the deep, hopeless, resigned sigh. “We must kill my corrupted children. There is no other choice.” He tilted his head, not quite looking at Wrathion but at least moving it in his direction. “You should be glad. You won, in the end, it seems.”

Wrathion sat back. Oh, yes, once, he would have celebrated.

Now, he felt numb.

No. Now he felt something else.

Angry.

“It’s a little curious.”

The only thing suggesting Sabellian was listening was the stiffening of his shoulders.

“It’s a little curious how you went through so much when I killed one of your children, but when They force you to kill all of them - you just roll over and accept it.”

Sabellian growled.

“You are a child,” the dragon said. “Not a manifestation of chaos, or the poison in my blood. It’s different.”

“They aren’t invincible,” Wrathion pressed, fire in his voice, now. “The Titans defeated them.”

Sabellian snorted. “And we are not Titans,” he said. “And defeated them? Encaged them, but in cages where Their voices can still travel.” He shook his head. “Trust me, whelp: I know what battles I can and cannot win. And this is one I cannot.”

“So you’re just going to give up.”

“Does this matter to you?” Sabellian looked at him. “Does my family matter to you now? Have you suddenly learned harmony?” He scowled, but even then the expression was weak, and when he looked away again he waved his hand, and arcane popped around him. A pipe appeared,, and he leaned back against the boulder and lit it. He took a long smoke. “I told you: you were right all along. That is what should matter to you. I know how your wicked little mind works.”

“But I wasn’t right!” Wrathion stood. “It’s just - it’s just a loss of life! There’s still value on all of you. You’re not mindless. You’re just - I don’t know - warped.”  _ Trust me _ . Azeroth had shown him this. Shown him what they were, what they could be.  _ Trust me _ . Did he even believe the words he was saying? He wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.  _ Trust me _ . Who else could he trust but the thing he lived for most? “Seldarria and Furywing could have ambushed and killed us the moment we went inside. But they didn’t.”

“Yes, until -”

“Yes, I know, I know! But listen to me. Maybe they can still be saved. Samia… I saw her still in there. Just - being used. But she was still in there.”

Sabellian’s shoulders sagged. In his eyes lay sorrow.

“Boy,” his uncle said, “there is nothing we can do.”

He met Wrathion’s eyes. In them was the utter conviction of loss. “Don’t you think I would be out there now, trying to save them? To take them home?” He looked back at the lake. “But I am not fighting against you, or dragons, or armies. These are the muscles in my body. The shadows in my blood. Shadows I can’t even touch.”

He was right. But in the same moment, Wrathion didn’t feel as hopeless as Sabellian looked. He wasn’t sure how to tackle this. Hope. Hope…

_ You need it more than I have ever met. _

Hope. It felt… good. Bright. Hah! No wonder Anduin felt so vibrant, so sure, all the time. He liked the feel of it.

They could do this. Even though he didn’t know what this was.  _ Taking back what is ours _ .

Something in his chest warmed. 

_ Taking back what is ours. _

_ Yes! _

“Oh, sure. They have the Old Gods. But we have a World. An entire  _ world _ .”

“Azeroth cannot help.”

“She saved  _ you _ .”

Sabellian rumbled and eyed Ebonhorn sidelong.

“She cannot save them all. Not anymore.” He shifted his weight. “I think they are blocked to her.” He touched the pendant. Wrathion squinted at it. 

“Even so, Ebonhorn and I think she has something planned -”

“You think?”

His confidence flickered. “We don’t know what exactly it is -”

Sabellian ground his teeth. “More empty promises. If she hasn’t helped us since the Dragon Soul, then she cannot help us now.”

“But -”

“ _ Wrathion _ .” He flinched.  _ When was the last time he actually used my name? _ “Go. Whatever grand scheme you have, or don’t have, I don’t care to be apart of. Maybe today is the day you realize some things you cannot change.”

The ex-Prince pursed his lips. He stared at Sabellian, stared at him a long time, and finally, stood. “Then I was right before,” he said. “You are a coward.”

“Maybe I am, boy,” Sabellian said. “Maybe I am.”

 

\---

 

Sabellian wasn’t sure how long he sat there after Wrathion left him. It could have been minutes or hours; the cavern was so still and quiet that it gave no state of time.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing did, anymore. The words felt dramatic, but he could think of no other way to put it. He had not felt such loss since Gruul.

Heavy footsteps came crunching behind him. Heavier than Wrathion’s.

Sabellian sighed.

“So,” Rexxar said. “When do we journey back home?”

He closed his eyes. Rexxar came to stand next to him. 

“I don’t know why you’re still  _ here _ ,” he said. “There’s no reason for you to be.”

“Because I still have a friend who needs my aid.”

Sometimes orcs took their ideals of nobility too far. Especially this one - and he wasn’t even a full-blown orc.

“I think you’ve certainly done enough, Rexxar,” Sabellian rumbled. “You found me. Isn't that why you came along anyway? To track me?”

Rexxar snorted. “Just because I did my job does not mean I will wipe my hands clean and go home.” He leaned against the boulder nearby. Misha was not with him. “I am not a machine with one mind and mission.”

“And?”

“I am here until this is done.”

Frustration welled up in his chest. “It  _ is _ done.”

Rexxar shrugged.

“Don’t shrug at me.”

“I am not shrugging at you.”

“Did one of them send you over here?”

“No,” the half-orc said. “You’ve been sitting here for too long, and I came to talk to you. That is all.”

“And you heard nothing from before?”

“No, I did.”

Sabellian growled softly. “And?”

Rexxar shrugged. 

Sabellian ran a hand over his face. “Why are you here? What do you have to say? Out with it.”

“You are giving up.”

“I came here to find my children. I found them. They are gone from me.”

“The boy gave no ideas?”

“No.”

“The tauren. Your brother?”

“They keep looking at me as if they are waiting for me to do something grand,” Sabellian said. “As if  _ I’m _ the one that will give them their lead to greatness. But both don’t know what they’re doing here. They don’t know what to do, and they are too weak to know when to give up. And the boy! One talk with Azeroth and he thinks he is some pinnacle of goodness! They think we’re going to be able to do something? That Azeroth has some great plan for us? A plan they don’t  _ know _ ? And they dare look at me with admonishment, when they themselves have nothing?”

“You could ask her.”

“What? Ask who?”

Rexxar pointed down.

“Oh, get out of here,” Sabellian grumbled. He waved a hand at the half-orc. “You are useless.”

Rexxar straightened and pat his back. “I’ll leave you to your musings, then,” he said.

He left him there, and again Sabellian was alone.

And decidedly more annoyed.

_ Talk to her.  _ Were they all mad? 

They had no idea.  _ No idea.  _ They pretended they knew what it would be like, with empathy from stories. Fools. They had no idea. And they had an idea to - what? Stand up against the very gods who had cursed them all? Did they even know what they were supposed to do? No.

Mad indeed!

And Azeroth -

He growled. 

He felt around for the pendant. It was hot against his glove.

_ Maybe I should speak with her _ , he thought. If only to throw his anger at something. If only to make this end. If only to make the two stop looking at him strangely, if only to make them give up too, if only to make Azeroth mind her own business.

“Fine,” Sabellian snarled. “Fine. You wish to speak with me? Then come. Speak to me.” He squeezed the pendant hard - hard enough that it should have broken, but it did not. “ _ Speak to me! _ ”

The earth rumbled around him. Power, the same power which had surged inside of him when the pendant snapped, surged along his fingertips, up his arms, into his eyes. It was so sudden and vibrant he didn’t have time to even gasp. Darkness clouded his vision.

When he opened his eyes, the chamber had vanished. 

He stood in a large, echoing space without form or space - the only thing that remained was the lake. It lay black and shiny, like a single shard of obsidian glass. It reflected a pulsing light.

Slowly - slowly - the light began to peel out, pulse out, a rising tide. It lifted from the lake, quietly taking form above.

It didn’t have a form - not really. It was a great mass of light, but what color? Silver, gold, green - every color, every texture. He tried to pinpoint what it was made of, but every time he looked, its surface changed. Diamond, grass, sand, jungle. Shards of distant places, shards of familiar places. If he looked at it from the side, he could almost make out the shape of it: a wolf, a human woman, a dragon, a serpent. But when he looked at it directly - nothing, just a flickering light.

Even as it stopped growing from the shard, it continued to pulse,  _ thunk-thunk _ , heart-like. With each pulse, it gave off energy.

Pure, flashing energy, unlike any he had ever felt. Not arcane, not druidic, not elemental - and yet, he could sense some fragments of such schools radiating from within this creature. It was raw. Primordial. The power within was… overwhelming. It pushed against his body like a wind, not cold, not hot, but full of force. He struggled not to look away or allow his knees to buckle.

Azeroth.

_ I am in front of the soul of the world,  _ he thought.  _ How many would sacrifice so much for an opportunity like this? _

_ And how would they like to know I despise her? _

“I am here,” he called up to her. “This is what you’ve wanted, isn’t it? Since you reached out to me on the island on the Great Sea. So speak, spirit. What do you want? Why did you save  _ me? _ ”

Azeroth flattened and coiled out: a long ribbon, a snake. 

She moved closer to him, humming. He stayed still. No. He had no fear for her: just the ticks underneath her skin. She was the gateway. The betrayer.

She pulsed and hummed loudly. It grew difficult to look at her directly; he was forced to look down at the lake when he could take no more.

He saw - himself on the surface.

He blinked and took a step back. It was not a reflection. It was a vision. There he was, speaking to Wrathion for the first time in the Tavern. It shifted. The Kun-lai cave. Sik’vess. The Temple of the White Tiger. The Celestial Court.

His expression darkened.

“You’ve been wanting this for longer, then. You’ve been watching me.” Discomfort pulled at his stomach. To be watched - studied. He had known the Old Gods would be doing as much the moment he stepped foot on this cursed world, but this… he squinted his eyes, steeling himself, and looked up at her. “But none of that answers my question: what do you want?”

Azeroth was right in front of him. He forced himself not to flinch. She had no face, or even a head or eyes, but all the same it felt like she was studying him. It didn’t feel judgemental, malicious. Iit felt curious.

The lake replayed the scenes again, faster. He growled and closed his eyes at the flashing colors. 

“Alright. Yes. Me.” He breathed out, felt his heart beat hard and angry against his chest.

“So. I suppose you have some grand plan, is it? You want your protectors back? Is that it? You want my power?”

Azeroth hummed. She pulled back a little. Wary, unsure.

“You showed me that you couldn’t save them,” he yelled up at her, the rage in his voice wavering in how it began to immediately break with sorrow. He didn’t care about the power she had, the power he could feel. He didn’t care that this was  _ Azeroth _ ,  _ the _ Azeroth, the soul of the world. She was everything which had gone wrong with the Black Dragonflight, and all which had taken his children’s future from them. “And now your two underlings tell me there is some great destiny at play?”

It was juvenile, but he wanted to throw something at her.

**I WISH TO HELP YOU.**

She spoke, but with thunder, with the rush of water, the call of birds, the groaning of stone. They were not words, but he understood her all the same. He flinched back.

“Help me?” he said at last, then laughed a bark of a laugh, dry and disbelieving. “Help me how? You showed me you cannot reach Samia and the others. So how can you help? Or do you only wish to… to  _ monopolize  _ off of me, to use my power for your own ends?”

**I NEED NOTHING FROM YOU.**

“Oh, except to bother me,” he said. “Is this what drove me Father mad?”

Her form shuddered. Heat rolled off of her.

**YOU HAVE ANGER IN YOUR HEART THE SAME SHADE AS MINE.**

Sabellian narrowed his eyes. “And that anger has led me to do terrible things.”

  1. ****The glass lake rippled. In it, visions appeared: of the attack on Wrathion, Sik’vess, Xuen, the Celestial Court… **YOUR ANGER. HOW YOU PROTECT.**



He looked down at himself in the lake, diving at the Alliance harpoons at Sik’vess.

“What of it, then?” He raised his eyes to Azeroth. “Is it what you want? My anger?”

  1. ****A touch of frustration… amusement, too. **I SEE THE SAME ANGER IN YOU THAT IS IN ME.**



“You don’t know me.”

**I HAVE KNOWN YOU SINCE YOU HATCHED.**

**I KNOW WHO YOU ARE.**

Sabellian growled. It wasn’t anger in his chest, but fear, that he tried to force down. “No you don’t.”

**I KNOW YOU PLAN TO GIVE UP.**

“There is nothing to be done -”

**DO YOU NOT FEEL RAGE FOR WHAT WAS DONE TO YOU? WHAT THEY FORCED YOU TO DO?**

The lake shimmered. He looked down.

He saw himself, gliding over black clouds and smoke. He dove with a roar. Flame gushed from his mouth. The mortal town below was already burning, and as he descended, guards scattered from the flames. Some were caught and burned in their armor. He aimed for homes, for the inns, where he knew there would be families and refugees huddling in fear.

Another image: breaking down dwarven homes, baking them from the inside with his flames.

Another image: unleashing poison from his mouth, toxic purple, where it fell hissing on a human settlement, one of the first to grow on the Eastern Kingdoms, thousands of years ago. Flesh bubbled beneath him. Screams of pain and terror were his blood.

Another image: flying, twirling in the sky with dozens of other dragons. His legion against a Red and Blue they had taken by surprise. Three Red circled him. He sank his teeth into one of their necks, extending his installed metal fangs and gushing poison into her blood. She fell away, screaming, her eyes burning from her sockets.

Another image: the Red and Blue dead around him, him smashing his way into a great blessed tree in a red dragonshrine. 

“No - please - no!” cried a drake as he thundered in. He smashed him off to the side and turned, mouth opened with poison, at the dozen red whelps cowering in the corner of the tree.

“Stop,” Sabellian snarled. “Stop!” He closed his eyes, put his hands over his face. 

It stopped at once.

**I KNOW WHAT YOU FEEL.** Her voice was gentle, bathed in sorrow.  **I CANNOT LET YOU GIVE UP. NOT WHEN THEY HAVE DONE SO MUCH TO US.**

He felt tears along his eyes. Angry, bitter tears, but tears nonetheless.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he hissed quietly. He opened his eyes and looked down at the lake, fearing he would see the whelps again, but no - the images had changed. In it lay visions of darkness. There lay the world, bathed in blackness. Along the ground bubbled flesh. Black flesh, living flesh, formless flesh.

Pain roiled off of him. He stumbled back, heart hammering. It was a pain he knew too well: an echoing, sticky pain. It lingered up memories of vomiting up black gunk after arriving on Blade’s Edge.

Impacts, like comets, burst against his chest. Dark, darker. They were in the visions, too: great fleshy things driving into the earth, tainting it. He bared his teeth and raised his eyes. Visions of the Twilight Hammer flickered in the lake now, and in it mortal cultists and dragons alike ripped from the ground. The earth heaved and cried out; the ground cracked like bones shattering.

**I KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE FORCED AND ENSLAVED AND TWISTED.**

Jagged buildings shot up from the earth. Deep underground, rock and crystal and slate were pushed away then dissolved as tentacles grew and stretched through the world.

**I KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE HELPLESS.**

Visions changed. Replacing the world’s corruption now reflected a herd of unicorn Dreamrunners. They galloped past him, their eyes white with terror. Behind them, vines swept after their hooves. No matter how fast the creatures ran, the vines - terrible and red and spiked - were faster. They devoured the Dreamrunners and, like a tide, passed over them. When they were gone, the creatures had been transformed into monstrous, oozing beasts, a corrupted image of what they had been, spiked and glowing of eye. The vision molded, shifted: entire ecosystems were devoured by this red darkness. Demigods fell. Druids of the strongest will were turned.

**THEY TAINT MY BLOOD.**

The visions shifted. Tentacles smashed through marble floors and swent Dwarves - no, Earthen, but all clad in iron - scattering. They coiled around some of the most prone and crushed them into rust. The building - ancient, metal, machined - rumbled, cracked. Laughter rang out, deep and terrible. Each cackle made the images change: titan avatars clutched their heads in fear or confusion. Machinery grew black and fleshy. Brother turned on sister. Chains snapped. Iron towers toppled.

**THEY TAKE THOSE WHO CARE FOR ME. THEY TAKE MY VOICES AWAY. THOSE CLOSEST TO ME.**

**THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO. I CAN ONLY WATCH.**

A sick, tarry feeling lay in his gut. He flexed his hands into a fist, and relaxed them, then flexed them again. He met the gaze of Azeroth’s floating form.

“None of this matters,” he said. “We both have the same things. And yet neither of us can do anything about what we have. All you have shown me is you have nothing to offer - the same as ever.” He scowled. “You say you just want to help, is that it? That suddenly, after ten thousand years, you want to  _ help.  _ Help how?  _ Help how?”  _ How dare she.  _ How dare she. “ _ You are as useless to me and mine as ever. All you are is a conduit for Them.”

**USELESS?** The ground around him thundered. Heat and chill crashed into him. Distant rumbling echoed from beyond the cavern.

**I AM THE GROUND BENEATH YOUR FEET** . The cavern shook.

**I AM THE AIR YOU BREATHE. THE WATER YOU DRINK. THE OCEANS YOU CROSS. THE STORMS. THE TREES. I AM THE PLACE WHERE GENERATIONS HAVE LIVED AND DIED. I AM THE CAVE YOU HATCHED IN.**

She thrust her form at him. So much power thrummed before him, so overwhelming, so cosmic, he had to back up and looked away. 

**I HAVE THE SAME SCARS AS YOU. DOES THIS MEAN YOU ARE USELESS, THAT ALL THOSE YOU CARE FOR ARE, TOO?**

He grit his teeth. “No.”

She pulled back. All the rage from her form fell away at once. She hummed softly.

**I KNOW WHAT I AM. DO YOU?**

He opened his mouth and closed it.

The questioning was inane, useless. And yet he fixated on it. Furywing’s accusations came lingering back.  _ At least I know what I really am. _ A monster, nothing more. Even what he had thrown at Wrathion - deep down, they were all just selfish slivers of grime, and relics of a lost time.

But even as he tried to reply, his words stuck to his throat. His whelps. He thought of his whelps, the smallest of his clutch. Did he think them monsters, deep down?

“I am a broodfather,” he said, slowly. No. He didn’t think they were. 

**THEN BE ONE.**

“I have! I have crossed your oceans and cursed earth and brave my own sanity to protect them! But now they are taken by the curse of our own flesh.” He bared his teeth. “And you tell me to be one, when you yourself can do nothing?!”

  1. **NOT ON MY OWN.** She paused. **BUT I CAN BE HARNESSED.**



The lake shimmered. Images of mortals rose to the surface. Orcs, tauren, dwarves - they danced with the elements, but the earth most of all.

They danced, and killed.

Monsters came running. Sha. Writhing flesh. Faceless Ones. In each vision the shaman sent a rain of destruction on them: boulders, great earthen spikes, lava. They summoned earthquakes, chasms to swallow entire swathes of minions, rockslides.

Sabellian watched, eyes blank. He shook his head.

“You misunderstand me if you think I am allured to the idea of using such power.” he looked up at her. “The same power that corrupted us. Being close to you is being close to Them.”

Azeroth hummed warily.

**I KNOW WHAT I AM,** she said. She paused for a long time **. I HAVE ALWAYS HAD PROTECTORS. AND I HAVE ALWAYS TRIED TO PROTECT THEM IN RETURN WITH MY POWER. BUT I FAILED, A LONG TIME AGO. I GAVE TOO MUCH TO ONE.**

Her voice was heavy with sorrow, and Sabellian’s stomach grew heavy with dread.

“Father.”

**HE WAS MY GREATEST FRIEND** , she said.  **AND FOR IT, I GAVE HIM EVERYTHING.** Her form trembled with rage.  **EVEN MY OWN CURSE.**

“And now you wish to give such power to  _ me? _ ”

  1. ****The chamber shuddered. **I WAS YOUNG THEN - AND I HAVE LEARNED.** She swirled closer to him. **A FRACTION OF MY POWER.**



“The boy won’t be pleased about that. Give this to him, not to me.”

She shimmered as if amused.  **HE ALREADY DOES.**

Sabellian frowned. “What?”

**I GAVE HIM POWER TO PROTECT** . She shimmered again.  **I GAVE IT TO EBYSSIAN TO AID.** She pulsed.  **AND I WILL GIVE IT TO YOU TO UNITE.**

She stretched out a part of her form. A swirl coalesced into an outstretched claw, palm up. It shifted into a paw, a hand, then back into smoke.

Sabellian stared at it. All his life, he had hated her. First, because They made him. Second, because he realized her power had cursed his kin and all his children. She was what had made them like this, even if she had not meant to. An apple with worms inside. 

“Unite,” he repeated. 

**YES. TAKE MY POWER, AND YOU WILL TAKE BACK WHAT IS YOURS.**

His instincts told him to turn away. 

He thought of the hatchlings huddled together.

_ I will have to do the same for my own, one day. _

“No.” 

Azeroth didn’t move.

“Not until you can promise me something.”

A curious, wary hum.

“Even if I use this power to get my children back,” he said, “one day, we will have to return to your surface. And when that day comes… there will be nothing to stop us from corruption. I will have to kill us all out of mercy.” He touched the pendant. “You are as powerful as They are. You may not be able to throw Them from your core, but maybe -” He sounded a fool. Hadn’t he learned? “You are everything you said you are. Then show me. Help my family, like you helped me when the pendant fell.’ He could not say the words. The real words he wanted to say. The foolish words.

_ Heal us. _

Azeroth hummed, quiet.

**OPEN THE WAY.**

Images of vines blocking the forest path flickered in the lake: the same image she had shown him before. 

“And then what? How?”

**THE WAY WAS OPENED FOR ME TO SPEAK WITH YOU WHEN YOU RECEIVED CHI-JI’S GIFT,** she said.  **BUT SUCH GIFTS ARE NOT PLENTIFUL, AND I ALONE CANNOT BURN THEM FROM YOUR BLOOD.**

Frustration built inside him. “Then you can’t -”

**TOGETHER** . Her voice echoed beyond the chamber.  **YOU AND I, AND ALL OTHERS LIKE US. TOGETHER, WE WILL OPEN THE WAY.**

“Like us?”

Again she extended her hand, her claw, her fin, her claw toward him.

**CURSED.**


End file.
